


Swedish Firesteel

by NomDeGuerre



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asexual Inquisitor, Kissing, Mabari, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Non-Inquisitor OC, Plural, Slow Burn, flash fic series, modern girls in Thedas, prompt series, singing and music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2018-10-24 17:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 78
Words: 112,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10746171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomDeGuerre/pseuds/NomDeGuerre
Summary: Piper knew she was courting danger, going out alone to search for her sister, but she didn't expect things to go sideways in quite this fashion.Modern girl(s) in Thedas, because it's such a fun trope.  Each chapter is 1K to 3K words, based on a randomly selected prompt. Point of view will change from chapter to chapter, but it mostly revolves around Piper.  There will be 100 chapters in all.





	1. Change in the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much what it says on the tin. I like working with a prompt and with shorter chapters; it helps me get chapters out in a reasonable time. I hope to keep to a once-a-week update schedule.
> 
> Obviously, this being set in the Inquisition timeline, there may be spoilers for any and all Dragon Age media (games, books, comics). I may also ignore parts of canon because it's inconsistent or I have a particular headcanon or something.

**Prompt: Change in the Weather**

**Word count: 1,549**

* * *

 

“Officials are urging people to stay inside and off the roads if they can, as the snowfall is expected to outpace what the plows will be able to handle.  We’re anticipating twelve to sixteen inches over the next twenty-four hours, and—”  The television screen hissed with static as Piper shut it off and tossed the remote onto her bedside table, frowning.

“Sorry, no can do,” she muttered to the silenced weather forecaster, turning to her bed.  It was covered in what seemed like a bunch of crap—a couple trash bags, box of matches, a battered old cocoa tin filled with petroleum jelly soaked cotton balls, two coiled lengths of parachute cord, a first-aid box, assorted gloves and hats, a keyring containing four items but no keys, a GPS, a crank-flashlight, a bundled-up tarpaulin shelter, two knives, and some other miscellaneous items.  Holding open a hiking backpack, she began to tuck them efficiently inside.  As she did, she marked off the items on a list on her smartphone.

She knew that what she was doing was courting disaster, could almost be considered suicide, but she wasn’t about to give up and sit around while her little sister was still missing.  Lyra had gone missing two days ago, when the weather was above-freezing and sunny.  There was no evidence of her whereabouts aside from her car, parked on the shoulder of one of the mountain roads with no sign of its driver.  There had been search parties sent out into the woods, ranging several miles from the location, but there was nothing to be found, not even footprints.  And with the blizzard looming, those search parties had been recalled.  Piper knew the police had mostly given up finding Lyra, alive at least, but she just couldn’t find it in herself to do the same.  And she knew that if she didn’t find Lyra quickly, her little sister would most likely die from exposure; Lyra’s emergency kit had still been in the trunk of her car.

So Piper was going to go out and look for her.  She knew cold weather survival techniques; she’d worked at a nearby national park through high school and college, and had trained on how to survive in several different extreme weather situations and climates.  She had all the equipment she might need to survive a blizzard in the woods.  It wasn’t a completely stupid idea, but it wasn’t a very smart one either.  Still, for Lyra…

Piper bundled up in five specialized layers, with heavy-duty hat and gloves, and a balaclava in her pocket if it ended up being needed.  She stuffed a few extra items into her other pockets—some easy, non-perishable foodstuffs, her phone, a compass, and a weather-proofed map.  Shouldering her backpack, she locked up the house and packed herself into her car and drove to the spot from which her sister had disappeared.

Her car had been towed after the police had gleaned all that they could from it in the context of the mountain forest road, but Piper still remembered the spot exactly.  She pulled over and put her car in park, but didn’t get out right away.

_ Lyra started out in her car,  _ she thought, peering through the windshield and trying to ignore the ominous clouds looming low and dark in the sky.   _ But she stopped and got out, for some reason, and it wasn’t anything to do with her car, which didn’t have so much as a warning light on.  So she must have seen something, in the woods. _

She glared out at the still forest as if she could intimidate it into giving up her sister.  It was eerily quiet beneath the branches, even the animals hunkering down in anticipation of the coming storm.  Piper firmed her chin and, ignoring the small voice at the back of her head that was hissing that she was going to get herself killed, left her car.  She took some time searching the brush that lined the road, looking for any indication that a person had passed through—broken branches, bruised leaves, footprints in dirt or loam.  There was nothing, but there was a break in the brush where a deertrail had been worn.  Lyra could have followed it.

Piper took a deep breath, staring through the trees.  She  _ would  _ find her sister.  She refused to consider the alternative.   _ Failure is not an option _ .  She pulled out her GPS and marked her location, so that even if she got turned around in the forest, she’d be able to find her way back.  Then she resettled the backpack on her shoulders and started down the trail.

She walked in silence for awhile, the only sound the wind and the shush of her boots through the detritus on the forest floor.  Once she thought she was far enough from the road, she began shouting occasionally, her sister’s name.  Her breath puffed and billowed white in the air; the temperature was dropping steadily.  Piper felt panic nip at the edges of her composure, but fought it back.  She couldn’t help Lyra if she just started panicking and reacting instead of acting.

Piper walked on, ignoring the pain as her throat tightened and began to scratch with her continued shouting.  Her nose was beginning to sting with cold, but the rest of her was fine, though not so warm that she started to sweat.  Sweating was a bad thing, when talking survival.  Sweat made clothes wet, which was bad news in cold weather.  She would lose body heat really quickly that way, though her layered clothes would ameliorate the effect somewhat.

“Lyra!” Piper shouted, drawing out the vowels as long as her breath lasted.  Standing still, she listened carefully, but there was no response.  Piper started off again, speaking under breath: “Dammit Lyra, where the fuck did you go?”

A few minutes later, she repeated the process, and bit her lip when there was no response again.  Snowflakes were beginning to fall, and Piper’s stomach tightened with despair.  She cursed quietly and kicked a lichen-splotched stone.

Then she froze, head cocking, her entire posture one of someone listening very intently.  A heartbeat, two, and then the slight sound she’d heard filtered through the trees again.

A crackling, like electricity or something.  Piper’s heart leapt, but she tried not to get her hopes up too much.  She  _ did  _ crash through the undergrowth, heedless of all else but the sound that lead her through the forest.  She puffed huge clouds of vapor into the air, running as fast as she dared.  The cold air burned a little in her throat as she breathed deeply.

_ Please be Lyra, please be Lyra! _

There was a sudden, sharp SNAP, and Piper was nearly blinded by a flash of green light.  She yelped and skidded to a halt, nearly falling over as the layer of leaf litter on the ground made her footing perilous.  Steadying herself on a nearby sapling, she looked up… and gaped.

It looked like the air had shattered like glass, a jagged shard of air that distorted light and vision.  It glowed, greener than grass and greener than emeralds.  Piper stared, mouth hanging open, for a long moment before her mind rebooted and she started looking around.  There had to be something generating this, some of those fancy new projectors that were as close as technology had gotten to holograms as yet.  A smoke-generator to give something for the projectors to project onto.  Something.  Because it wasn’t possible that this… thing… was real.

“What the hell?” Piper muttered, as circling the image yielded no projectors or anything.  It did prove that the Thing was three-dimensional, though, since she could see it at every angle.  She tried not to think too hard on the fact that it looked different from each angle, like she was seeing  _ through _ it.  Like it was a door and she was looking into it, at the room beyond.  It looked so real it seemed wrong.

“Okay,” she murmured to herself, edging closer to the Thing cautiously.  “Okay.  This is no problem.  It looks pretty real, yeah, but it could just be my eyes fooling themselves.  The real test is if I can touch it.  If I can touch it, then it’s real.  Right.  Yeah.  I’m gonna get myself killed, aren’t I.  Oh well, here goes…”

_ Lyra would totally have touched it,  _ she thought as she closed the last few steps.   _ Too curious.  She would have needed to know if it was real. _

Piper lifted her hand, which shook a little.  The Thing seemed to hang in the air, bottom edge just at eye-level.  This close, Piper could make out some of the details of the… stuff on the other side.  It looked like a land ravaged by wildfire—the ground bare rock, blackened and sooty.  The only signs of plant life were dead, twisted skeletons of bare branches.

Her hand neared the Thing.

There was a crackle, a pop, a loud snap… The Thing threw out light like a small green sun, and the ground bubbled blackly where concentrated shafts of the light struck.  One of those beams of light hit Piper, and she screamed.

She felt herself jerk, and vertigo crashed over her, strong and dizzying.

Her vision washed white, then black.

Her scream cut off.


	2. Lost and Found

**Prompt: Lost and Found**

**Word Count: 1,123**

* * *

 

Cullen adopted a no-nonsense ‘woe betide any who dare interrupt me on this Very Important Errand’ stride as soon as he left the relative safety of the training grounds, making his way through Haven up to the Chantry and hoping that Chancellor Roderick wasn’t nearby.  Most people in Haven saw Cullen’s quick, firm stride and his grim half-scowl and left well enough alone, but Roderick was too puffed up on his own self-importance and seemed impervious to even the darkest of scowls.

The Maker must have been watching over him that day, though, because he made it all the way to the War Room without seeing hide nor hair of the sour clergyman.  Cullen allowed himself a silent breath of relief as he closed the door behind him.  Leliana and Cassandra were already there; Josephine was often the last to arrive, even though her office was right next door.  Or perhaps,  _ because  _ her office was right next door, and she had the luxury of waiting until everyone else had arrived to leave her work.  Maker knew Cullen itched to get back to his duties almost as soon as he left them, so he could understand the Ambassador eking every last second of work out of the day.

The door’s hinges squeaked as it swung open, admitting the Herald.  She was a walking bundle of contradictions, he had found.  As short and slight as an elf, but with the eyes and ears of a human.  She had the soft, smooth complexion of the finest Orlesian noblewoman, but the rangy muscles of a rogue and the hand callouses of a scholar.  She didn’t know how to fight but she had a mind sharp for tactics and strategy.  Her expression was mischievous even at rest, but when she came to the war table, she was as stolid and practical as Cassandra.

She nodded politely to them, and moved to her spot at the table.

“Hello Commander, Sister Leliana.  I hope you’re doing well today,” she greeted them, her voice another contradiction.  She was human, but spoke with a dwarf’s accent.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied easily, as Leliana murmured something affirmative as well.  He’d had a lot of reservations about the Herald at first, as would only be expected.  She’d appeared out a Rift without any trace as to where she’d come from—not even Leliana could dig up her past—with the Mark on her hand, their only suspect for the cataclysm at the Conclave.  But she’d proven herself, in many ways.

“Herald, welcome back!”  Josephine joined them with a flutter of cloth-of-gold.  “Your journey back from the Storm Coast was uneventful, I hope?”

“More or less,” she replied.  “Thank you for arranging space for the Chargers to bivouac, incidentally.”

“Certainly.  They are all settled in?”

“Settled in and already in the tavern, I suspect.”

“Are we certain it is wise to employ someone who has fully admitted to being a Qunari spy?” Cullen asked.

“Well, since we  _ know  _ he’s a spy, we can control what information he has access to, if need be.  Anyway, I don’t think he’s really going to be trying very hard to spy.  Honestly, it seemed more like he was just going through the motions, like he was more interested in being a mercenary captain.”

“That is not particularly reassuring, Herald,” Cullen said.  She quirked a small smile at him.

“I know, I’m sorry.  But, I have a good feeling about this.  I don’t think he’ll be a problem.”

“I’ll be keeping eyes on him and his Chargers,” Leliana assured Cullen.  He sighed, but capitulated.

“I told Bull that we’d be watching him, so he’d better be on his best behavior,” the Herald said easily.  “Anyway, what’s happened since I left?”

“We received a report from the Fallow Mire camp,” said Cullen at once.  “A squad of our soldiers has been taken hostage by a group of Avvar.  They have demanded that you come personally to negotiate for their return.”

She frowned.  “Have they given any timeline?  Like, they’re not going to start killing hostages if I don’t answer in a couple days, are they?”

“No, Herald, but it’s not clear how our people are being treated under the Avvars’ care.”

“Sure.  Okay, if there isn’t something more pressing, that’ll be my next destination.”

“Very well.”

“Anything else?” asked the Herald attentively.

“We have heard rumors of a Grey Warden scouting recruits in the Hinterlands,” Leliana said.  “It would be wise to seek him out; he may have information on the whereabouts of the other Wardens.”

The Herald nodded.

“Also, we have reports of Rift locations coming in from our scouting parties.  We’re compiling them into a map for you to take into the field.  The closure of these Rifts should be high priority.  As long as they remain open, they are a threat.”  Leliana paused.  “In point of fact, a Rift opened nearby, just due north.  Unfortunately, we were not the first to discover it.  When we arrived, the demons had already killed a squad of Fereldan soldiers and their mabari.”

“Oh,” the Herald said, frowning sadly.  “Have we sent word to the King?”

“Yes,” Josephine replied somberly.  “And we have sent the soldiers’ personal effects along with the message.”

“Good.”

“That is not all, Herald,” Leliana said.  “There was one human survivor, and three mabari pups.  Though she isn’t a Fereldan soldier, and didn’t know why she was unconscious among them.  She says her name is Piper, and she’s looking for her sis—”

“ _ Piper _ ?”  The Herald’s face went paler than usual, and she gripped the edge of the table as if her legs couldn’t gold her weight.  “Piper’s here?  Where?”

“Do you know—?”

“WHERE?”

“She’s being held in the cells just below… Herald!”  The four of them gaped briefly, as she almost literally flew out of the War Room, the door ricocheting off the wall with the force with which she’d thrown it open.  A moment of shock, then they were rushing after her.

She moved fast and recklessly, throwing open doors and taking a flying leap down some stairs.  She startled the guard on duty at the Chantry’s small prison, the man leaping to his feet as she hurtled headlong down the corridor.  “Your Worship!”

Ignoring him, she shouted: “Piper!”

There was a clatter, a noise of surprise, and then a woman’s voice shouting from one of the cells: “Lyra!”

Hands appeared, reaching through the bars of one of the cells.  Dogs started barking.

“The mabari pups are in there with her?” Cullen asked, surprised, as they caught up.

“They wouldn’t let her out of their sight,” Leliana admitted.

“Oh my god,  _ Piper _ ,” the Herald said, gripping the hands.

“Lyra,” said Piper.  And then they both burst into tears.


	3. Patience

**Prompt: Patience**

**Word count: 1,198**

* * *

 

The two of them cried for a while, then Lyra turned to her companions and demanded: “Let her out.  This is my sister.  Let her out of here.”

“Of course,” said the hooded woman, striding forward and pulling a key out of some hidden pocket in her… was that chainmail?  Piper didn’t care; Lyra was here, alive, safe.  The heavy iron door swung open, and Piper threw herself at her sister, wrapping her in a tight hug.  Behind her, the three puppies began whining and barking.  Piper released Lyra and turned.

“Hush,” she told the dogs firmly, but not unkindly.  They obeyed, as they had obeyed all of her directions.  They seemed much smarter than the typical dog, and more behaved.

“Of course,” Lyra said, voice croaky with tears.  “Of course you’d show up and land on top of a bunch of puppies.”

“I was hoping to land on top of you, though the puppies are an acceptable substitution,” Piper said, a little giddily.  She couldn’t believe she’d found her sister.  She also couldn’t really believe her surroundings.  Like some kind of Renaissance Fair on steroids.  She’d thought, briefly upon waking, that she’d stumbled on some sort of cult hiding out in the Rockies.  But her first glance at the night sky had put paid to that idea.

 _Two goddamn moons_.  And all the stars were wrong.  She still could hardly believe it.

“God, Lyra, I thought you were dead,” she murmured, hauling her in for another hug.

“I’m not.  I’ve been here,” Lyra said into Piper’s hair.  “I’ve just been here.  Oh, Pips, I have so much to tell you.”

There was a small sound as one of Lyra’s companions—still present—cleared their throat.  The sisters released each other, and turned.  Piper took the opportunity to look at the four strangers a little more closely.

“This is my sister, Piper Hjaltason,” Lyra said.  “Piper, this is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador.”

She was a handsome woman with warm brown skin and black hair pulled into a pretty braided up-do.  Her clothes were brightly colored and suited her well.  “Lady Piper.  A pleasure to meet you.  Allow me to apologize for your treatment up to now; we do not commonly make a habit of imprisoning our allies’ families.”

The hooded, chainmailed woman spoke up then: “We do not, however, hesitate to restrain potential criminals, and you were the only survivor in the midst of slain Fereldan soldiers.  You can understand our concern.”

Lyra leaned in close to Piper’s ear.  “They did this to me, too.  Don’t worry, now that they know you’re my sister, nobody’ll even think about locking you up again.”

Aloud she said: “And that’s Sister Leliana, our spymaster.”

 _‘Sister’?_  Piper assumed it was the title of some assassin’s guild, or something.  The woman didn’t look like she’d be clergy.

“Yes, that,” Leliana said with a sort of sigh.  Lyra smirked at the woman, then continued on:

“The man trying to sweet-talk your dogs is Commander Cullen, the leader of our soldiers.”  At his name, the man himself looked up guiltily from where he’d knelt to offer his fingers for the dogs to sniff.

“Oh.  Pleasure to meet you, my lady,” he murmured, cheeks reddening a little.  One of the puppies—the one with the dark brown fur, which she had noticed before seemed to be the ‘boss’ dog and must more investigative than the others—shoved its wedge-shaped head under his hand.  He looked down, a smile spreading over his face.  The shy affection he lavished upon the puppy endeared him immediately to Piper.

“The pleasure is mine,” she replied, and he nodded, barely glancing at her as the other dogs edged in to demand pets, too.

“Ah, I think we’ve lost him,” observed Lyra with amusement.  Piper shared a grin with her, then turned to be introduced to the last of their party.

“And last but not least, this is Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.”

Piper didn’t know what a Seeker was, but Cassandra herself was a tall, fit woman with sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes.  She was clad in close-fitting armor and had a sword at her waist, and she looked like she could use it.  Piper offered her a small, polite smile.

“Good to meet you,” she said.

“Maker’s blessings,” replied Cassandra, voice as brisk and no-nonsense as her appearance would have suggested.  Her words had a slight accent, but Piper couldn’t quite place it.  Although, to be fair, she was pretty sure that ‘French’ and ‘Italian’ weren’t the accents flavoring Leliana and Josephine’s words, respectively.  Considering this place had two moons and elves and dwarves, she didn’t think it was Earth, exactly.  Even though they _sounded_ like accents she recognized, they probably weren’t.

“I, um, understand why you were suspicious of me,” Piper said awkwardly.  “Um.  But, if it’s not too much trouble, could I have my things, that you all took from me before locking me up?  With everything cleared up, I’d like them back…”

“Of course,” said Leliana.  “Though I would like to ask some questions about some of the items.”

“Er,” Piper said, and exchanged a look with Lyra.  “Depending on the question, I might be able to answer.”

“My sister is going to stay with me,” Lyra announced briskly.  “There won’t be any need to find her accommodations, since she’ll just be staying in my quarters.  However, I want her to be accorded as much respect as any of our guests.”

“What do you intend to do with the mabari?” the Commander asked, as Josephine nodded and scribbled something on the large writing board she carried.  Piper looked at the three dogs.  Even though they were clearly young, they were still large.  And though they were well-behaved, she’d never owned a dog before.

“Well, I guess they’ll come with me,” she replied uncertainly.  “I can’t leave them behind; they won’t let me.”

“No, of course not.  They’ve imprinted on you,” he said, ruffling one’s ears.  “Mabari are very loyal.  Young ones like these will want to keep you close so they can protect you.  They’ll calm down as they get older.”

“Oh?  That’s good to know,” she said.  “You seem to know a lot about dogs.  Would it be alright if I came to you with any questions I had?”

“Ah,” he said, looking up, seeming surprised.  He met her gaze, and looked away quickly, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck.  The man, Piper decided, was adorable.  “I don’t know everything; I’ve never had a dog, I’ve only admired them.  But we have a number of Fereldan mercenaries in our ranks who might know mabari care.  I can get one of them to teach you.”

“That would be great,” Piper said with relief.

“Okay, great,” Lyra interrupted, impatiently.  “If we’re done, I’d really like to catch up with my sister…”

“Of course,” Sister Leliana said.  “Though I will come by with some questions later—”

“Yeah, yes, okay, later, got it!”  Lyra grabbed Piper’s wrist and started dragging her out of the dungeon.  The puppies whined, pulled themselves away from the Commander, and followed.  “We’ll be in my quarters!  Don’t forget to bring Piper’s stuff by, too!  See ya!”


	4. Never Again

**Prompt: Never Again**

**Word count: 1,261**

* * *

 

Lyra was made doubly aware of the stares and the whispers and bowing and saluting as she led her sister through Haven to the little house she’d been given as the Herald.  She knew her sister very well, and knew that Piper was undoubtedly noticing and cataloging every worshipful glance sent their way.  And sure enough, they were nearly at the hut when:

“ _De dyrkar dig_ ,” Piper murmured to her quietly in Swedish. Lyra sighed.

“ _Jag vet_ ,” she replied.  “ _I told them not to, but they won’t stop_.”

“ _Do they know we’re not…_ ” Piper hesitated, trailing off.

“ _From here_ ?” Lyra guessed.  “ _Sort of.  I told them I was from across the ocean.  But it’s more complicated than that.  Listen, we’ll talk more when we get behind closed doors.  I’m not actually sure if anyone can understand Swedish.”_

“Okay,” muttered Piper in English.  They reached the hut, and Lyra held the door for her sister to precede her inside.  The puppies eagerly followed.  She shut the door firmly behind them, locking it.  She sister was looking around the little log cabin; it was clear this had once been someone’s home.  Lyra didn’t like to think about it, but she was fairly certain whoever had lived here had died in the cataclysm.

“You might want to sit down,” she told Piper, dragging a hand through her hair and wincing as her gloves caught in the curls.  Piper sat.  “Right.  Well, obviously the first thing you need to know is that we’re uh, not in Kansas anymore, so to speak.”

“I had noticed,” Piper said dryly.  “It was hard to miss the second moon.  And the completely new set of stars.  Also, elves and dwarves and demon monster things.”

“Yeah, well, I actually happen to know exactly where and when we are,” Lyra admitted weakly.  Piper narrowed her eyes.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, um.”  She paused, grimacing.  “You know those video games I got obsessed with over the summer?”

Piper stared blankly, then: “No.”

“Piper, I’m serious—”

“I know you are; I was talking to the universe.  Or… or multiverse, or whatever.  No.  We can’t be in a video game.  That’s absurd.  This is absurd.”

“Crazy-pants or not, this is the truth.  We’re in Thedas.  These are the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition.”

Piper buried her face in her hands.  “What the hell, Lyra?”

“I know,” she whispered.  “And what an introduction we had to this world, too.  They tell me you were found in the middle of a group of dead Fereldan soldiers.  And when I came through, the Conclave had just blown up, the sky torn open.  There were so many dead… I’ve already seen so many people die…”

Lyra tried and failed to suppress a sob, tears springing to her eyes.  She slipped her hands over her mouth, and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears.  A moment later, she felt her sister’s arms wrap around her.  A little after that, she felt Piper’s tears dropping onto her shoulder.  For the second time that day, they clung to each other as they wept; the first time had been in relief and joy at finding each other, but this time is was grief and sorrow and fear for what they found themselves in the midst of.

The three mabari puppies pressed in close to their legs, whining in reaction to their sorrow.  Lyra broke from her sister, sniffling.  She sat down on her bed and reached out to stroke the velvety ears of the palest-furred mabari.  “Oh, Pips, it’s been awful.  And maybe it’s terrible of me, but I’m just so glad you’re here.”

“Why is that terrible?” Piper sank down next to her.

“This place is so dangerous,” Lyra said, shaking her head.  “Even if you ignore the demons, the land is in the middle of a war.  The mages and the templars, they’re fighting because the mages wanted freedom.  And the red lyrium isn’t making the templars particularly sane or reasoned…”

“You’ve lost me,” Piper said.  “Who are the templars?  Is the Catholic church here?  Why do the mages need to fight for their freedom?  What’s lyrium?”

“Oh god,” Lyra groaned, bumping a fist against the side of her head in frustration.  “There’s so much to explain…

“Alright, I guess I’ll start with the basics.  I think I have a map around here somewhere—” She stood and went over to a table shoved up against the wall.  It was covered in papers and books.  She rummaged around a little and pulled out a large sheet of heavy parchment and brought it back over to the bed.  She spread it out atop the blankets and cleared her throat.  “Okay, so this world is called Thedas.  There are four races that live here: humans, elves, dwarves, and kossith…”

Lyra was very glad that she’d been a completely unrepentant nerd over video games, devouring any media associated with her favorite ones.  She knew a lot about Thedas, which made it easy to explain the politics and history of the world to her sister.  Well, it made it easy in that she could explain a lot and answer most of the questions Piper had.  It wasn’t very easy to talk about the horrors of the world, which included how elves and mages were treated.

“That’s fucked up,” Piper said flatly, after Lyra’s description of Mage Towers, Harrowings, and the Rite of Tranquility.  “Like, super fucked up.”

“It gets worse,” Lyra said grimly, and told her sister about the abuses that had lead up to the Mage Rebellion, and the Annulments that had occurred at the onset.

“They just… _kill_ everyone?” Piper gaped.  “But… but you said mages get sent to Circles _as children_.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus tapdancing Christ.”

“Hold onto your pants, because I’m just getting started,” Lyra told her.  “Maybe I should have gotten some booze for this.”

By the time she’d explained templars and lyrium addiction, Red lyrium, the Qun, Darkspawn, Blights, Grey Wardens, and Corypheus, it was very late in the day.  She’d had to light a couple candles as the house’s interior darkened.  Piper’s face looked pale even in the warm light of the candles.

“What do we do?” she finally asked, as Lyra sipped water from a travel skin to soothe her dry throat.  “Where do we fall in all this?  Lyra, those people out there are calling you the Herald of their religion’s prophet.  What are we doing here?”

“I’m here to close the Breach, defeat Corypheus, and save the fucking world,” Lyra said.  “And I hope that you’re here to help me.”

Piper laughed.  “What can I do?  You’re the one with the magic papercut, the one who understands all this.  I’m just… I’m a redshirt.  All I can do here is die.”

Lyra’s suddenly, incandescently furious.  “Don’t you say that.  Don’t you _ever_ say that again.  You’re not going to die; I won’t let you.”

Her voice is harsh, words nearly shouted.  Her anger is echoed by the puppies’ growls.  Piper looks from them to Lyra, eyes wide.  “I—Sorry.  Pessimism not allowed, got it.”

“Death isn’t much of a joke, here,” muttered Lyra.  Piper winced.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I get it.  Sorry, Duckie,” she sounded sincere, and the childhood nickname only emphasized it.  Lyra let out her breath in a sigh.

“No, I kind of overreacted.  But Piper, I can’t… Please don’t joke like that.  Not now.  Not here.”

“I get it,” Piper whispered, slinging an arm around her and tugging her gently in for a side-hug.  They’re silent for a moment, then Piper asked: “So… about that booze you mentioned… could that actually be a thing right now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little bit of Swedish used in here. I hope that the minimal sentences have made it easier for me to get the translation right, but if anybody can spot-check for grammar and such, I would be very appreciative.
> 
> De dyrkar dig - They worship you.  
> Jag vet - I know.


	5. Forgotten

**Prompt: Forgotten**

**Word count: 1,334**

* * *

 

With the soldiers’ training fields stretched out in front of Haven’s gates, Cullen was perfectly positioned to watch the comings and goings of the fledgling Inquisition.  Today, it was the Herald and her team, all a-horse with new mounts from Master Dennet.  She was bound for the Fallow Mire, he knew from their War Table session the day before.  He watched them ride out until they disappeared around a bend in the path, and then turned back to overseeing the recruits’ shield-training exercise.  As he did so, he caught sight of the Herald’s sister, standing near the gate, peering off after her sister.  Her mabari were arrayed around her feet, scrutinizing everyone around her as she twisted her hands together in a knot in front of her.

She didn’t look like he might have guessed a sibling of the Herald would look.  Where the Herald had curly red hair and grey eyes, her sister had pin-straight blonde hair and very blue eyes.  The structure of their faces and bodies, however, was very similar, and when they stood next to each other the relation was obvious despite other differences.

As he watched, she heaved a visible sigh—her shoulders lifting and falling—and knelt to let the puppies press against her and reassure her.  He looked away as she straightened, attention moving to her surroundings.

He wasn’t sure what to think of her.  In the personal sense, too, he supposed, but more in the sense that he didn’t know why she was here.  She’d fallen through a Rift like the Herald… Then again, he wasn’t sure what to think of the Herald, either.  Certainly she was a kind-hearted woman, intelligent, but was she Andraste’s Herald?  Cullen wasn’t a Revered Mother and couldn’t even pretend to know.  But she was, at least, here to close the Rifts and help to find Divine Justinia’s killer.  Her sister did not have a Mark.  Perhaps she was here as support for the Herald?

But no, that presupposed there was such a thing as destiny, required that each person have a greater purpose in being where they were.  And Cullen didn’t really believe in that.  Perhaps she was just here because she’d been looking for her sister, as she had told Leliana’s interrogators.

Cullen realized he was frowning and tried to smooth the expression from his face; it tended to make the new recruits nervous.

“Excuse me?  Was it… uh… Commander?”  He recognized the voice immediately as the Herald’s sister, though he hadn’t expected to to approach him.  He turned.

“My lady?  May I be of service?”

She gave him a hesitant smile.  “Just Piper, please.  I was hoping, um, if you weren’t busy, that I could take you up on your offer of finding someone to teach me how to care for the… mabari?”

He followed her glance down at the puppies, who looked back at him hopefully.  Cullen couldn’t help but stoop to give each of them a good scratch about the ears.  They panted happily at him.  He straightened and caught her smiling at his indulgence, and felt his ears go a little pink.  He rubbed the back of his neck.  “Ah, of course my lady Piper.”

She squinted at him a little, but he ignored that as he consulted his mental list of their forces.  Irma, probably.  A woman just beginning to go grey, a veteran of the Fifth Blight.  She was a level-headed and practical soldier that he knew could be trusted with the greenest of recruits.  She’d be the best choice for teaching a tyro mabari handler.  Especially a noncombatant tyro mabari handler.  Cullen nodded to himself.  “I have an individual in mind.  She’s on patrol currently, but I can send her to you later.”

“Oh, sure, of course.  I’ll…” she hesitated.  “I’ll just be in the cabin I share with my sister.”

Cullen nodded, then noticed a runner approaching with a scribe’s board.  “Very well, my lady.  If you’ll excuse me?”

“Message for you, ser,” said the runner, handing over the board.  Cullen took it and scanned it, absently noting as Lady Piper hesitated briefly, then turned and trudged back into Haven through the open gates.  The mabari followed, though he did notice one of them look back at him just before bounding up the stairs after its mistress.

* * *

After the Cataclysm, the Inquisition was faced with one problem after another, but none had quite so much daily impact as the lack of materials and housing.  The small village of Haven did not have anywhere near the number of buildings or beds required to comfortably house their ever-growing force.  A veritable forest of tents had sprung up, a new copse seemingly every day.  The logistics were a nightmare for nearly everyone on the Herald’s council.  The Quartermaster was inundated with requisitions from the smiths, the cooks, the healers… And some of those requisitions were sent on up to Josephine, who was responsible for the trade deals that might fulfill them.  Meanwhile, Leliana and Cullen were left trying to fulfill their duties with limited resources and their personnel under-supplied.

While things had been getting better, as the Herald had started bringing supplies and the locations of resources back with her after missions, it was still a headache.  One that Cullen, unfortunately, had to face.  After spending the day training recruits, organizing what remained of the Conclave’s guards and the newcomers, and dealing with urgent reports, Cullen retired to the Chantry to join Josephine in her office to catch up on paperwork.

He’d originally tried to do so in his tent, at a tiny table that had been slapped together with some spare wood and nails, but his frame and his workload had proven too big and his tent and the make-shift desk too small.  After the table had broken for the second time, he’d given in and started looking for somewhere else, where-upon Josephine had offered to share.

It was… comfortable, actually, though they didn’t really speak.  But the silent, industrious camaraderie almost made Cullen relax, despite the stress of the work.  Almost.

He was currently trying to balance the duty roster.  He liked to have an experienced soldier paired with new recruits, but they were starting to get to the point where the newcomers outnumbered the veterans by quite a margin.  Fortunately, not everyone coming in to join the Inquisition was entirely green; some sellswords were showing up, too.  Though they weren’t yet familiar with how the Inquisition worked, they could usually be counted on to organize a patrol of wet-behind-the-ears pups.  Or at least, Cullen would have to count on them, because he had no other choice, besides putting his veterans on double-shifts.  And he wasn’t going to do that.

It was a little further complicated with Irma’s time now partially being taken up with training Lady Piper; he usually gave Irma a squad of recruits to whip into shape.  But he couldn’t begrudge the Herald’s sister for his soldier’s time.  Especially not with Irma’s first report.

“The Lady’s got a good head on her shoulders,” she’d said matter-of-factly.  “Asked all the right questions, took instruction well.  It shouldn’t take too long to get her solid on the basics, ser.  Maybe two, three weeks.”

He’d seen them, briefly, working the dogs in a field downslope of the the soldiers’ training area.  The Lady’s face had been set in concentration, listening intently when Irma spoke.  Her body language, when dealing with the puppies, was firm and confident.  She’d train up to be a competent handler, he thought, and Irma agreed.  He was glad that she would be good for the dogs.  He’d always hated when mabari were taken on by scum; he’d had to kill too many that had imprinted on bandits, too loyal to men who didn’t deserve it.  But Lady Piper seemed to be like her sister, kind-hearted and intelligent; there was no worry there.

Cullen shook himself out of his contemplation of the Herald’s sister, and returned to his forgotten rosters.


	6. Frost

**Prompt: Frost**

**Word count: 1,080**

* * *

 

Piper wasn’t entirely certain what to do with herself with Lyra gone.  Irma’s mabari training helped with that, somewhat, but she couldn’t spend all day working the puppies.  They were still too young for a full schedule, and Irma had other duties beside teaching her.  At least the puppies were good about it all.  Irma said they had probably been partially trained, since they  _ had _ been out with the soldiers and adult dogs.  Completely untrained puppies (and their mother) stayed in the kennels.  And since it had been a squad of Fereldan soldiers, they could assume that proper mabari handling tenants had been being followed.

Apparently, it was a stereotype that Fereldans loved their dogs.  Piper was a little amused, but she could hardly blame them, if it were true.  Her mabari puppies were wonderful.  Smart, sweet, and well-behaved.  Even if they  _ were _ just a little ugly…

She sighed, and looked down at them.  Finn looked back at her, tongue lolling.  The expression was endearing even with his brutish features.  She couldn’t help but smile.  Finn laid his head in her lap with a little whine.  She obligingly stroked his ears, and then laughed a little when Poe shoved his head onto her lap, too, begging for pets.

“Alright, alright,” she said, and ruffled his short fur.  “What do you guys say we go out for a little fetch?”

Finn and Poe’s ears perked, and, on the ground, Rey lifted her head.  Piper laughed full-throatedly, and stood.  The three dogs stood, too, prancing a little from foot to foot in excitement.  They danced around her as she opened the door and led them out of the gates and down to the lakeside, skirting around the Commander’s training fields.  He was there, of course, as he always seemed to be, directing and observing his troops.

Finn barked a greeting, and the Commander’s golden head turned.  Piper waved a little.  He was too far away for her to see his expression, but she thought he was startled.  His hand twitched up like an automatic reaction, hovered briefly at his waist, then rose a little more smoothly to shoulder-height to return the gesture of greeting.  She smiled as he turned back to his soldiers, hand shifting to the back of his neck.

Lyra had said, if anything happened while she was gone, Piper could always go to him—to Cullen—or to Cassandra, Leliana, Varric, Krem, or the Iron Bull.  Lyra knew these people, from all her hours playing those video games, knew them front to back, all their secrets and strengths and weaknesses.  And she said they were trustworthy.  She spoke of them fondly.

Piper could see it, too.  Even knowing them only a little, she could see it.  It was in everything they did, how they wore themselves down with the work they’d taken on.

Her boots crunched through the snow around the lake, and she called to the dogs: “Well, find a stick for me to throw, and we’ll play fetch!”

They bounded away into the trees, breaths billowing clouds into the frosty air.  Piper drew her coat closer around her, the fur ruff tickling her cheeks.  The coat she’d arrived in had been warmer, but it had also been strange and alien, making her stand out in a crowd.  Nothing these people had came close to the materials it had been made out of.  So, Lyra had requisitioned a Thedosian coat for her.  Despite the ill-fit and the drop in warmth, Piper was thankful.  People already stared at her, for being the Herald of Andraste’s sister, for having three mabari puppies.  She didn’t need them staring because she looked weird.

Poe came barreling at her, stick in his mouth.  Piper was familiar with normal dogs, having had several dog-owner-friends, and braced to be bowled over, but the mabari skidded to a halt in front of her, dropped the stick, and barked in excitement and appeal.  Piper snorted and whipped the stick in a side-arm throw.  It streaked through the air and Rey, sprinting from the trees, leapt to catch it.  When she brought it back, Piper threw it again.

Throwing the stick and waiting for the dogs to bring it back and throwing it again became almost meditative, and Piper sank into her thoughts as the three dogs raced each other for the stick.

She had never been one to sit inactive.  It chafed, a little, to do so now.  She understood how little she knew, understood, of this world.  It’s not that she wanted to grab a sword and go out with Lyra to kill demons or whatever.  She did kind of want to be useful, though.

_ What  _ can  _ I do, though?  _ She wondered, sighing to herself.  She couldn’t fight, she wasn’t a blacksmith, she didn’t know enough about Thedas to work with Leliana or Josephine.  She knew some advanced first aid, from when she worked as a guide in a National Park—she could set a bone and stitch a wound, but she knew nothing of healing in this place.  Did they have medicines?  Were they the same medicines?  Did they just use magic for everything?  She knew wilderness, cold weather, and desert survival skills.  But wouldn’t everyone here know those things, too?  It’s not like they were city-slickers come down from their skyscrapers to look at some flowers.

_ Maybe I’ll speak to Lyra’s advisors.  They’ll probably have a better idea how I can help with what few skills I have. _  Piper threw the stick again.  She thought they met in the mornings to… do whatever advisors did when the person they advised was out of office, as it were.  Organizing?  All the logistical stuff of running the Inquisition didn’t go away when Lyra was afield; they still had to coordinate with each other.

She’d bother them tomorrow.  That gave her the rest of today to figure some way of spinning her meager relevant talents in a positive way.   _ Hi, yes, I can teach your soldiers stuff they already know.   _ She scowled down at her toes.  No, there must be some low-skill type jobs that needed doing, in an organization this big.  She would peel potatoes if it would help.

Piper blew a heavy sigh into the air, then smiled wanly at the approaching Poe.

“Who’s a good boy?” she praised, accepting the stick from him.  He grinned and barked, nub tail wagging with enough force to shake his entire back half.  Well, at least the dogs found her useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yer damn right that's what I named the dogs. I tried thinking of a bunch of nerdy trio names, but nothing fit quite so well in my brain as those three cinnamon rolls.


	7. Tears

**Prompt: Tears**

**Word count: 1,330**

* * *

 

Usually, their return to Haven prompted a weary, resigned sigh from Lyra.  The weather down in Ferelden was generally warmer, even when it was raining, and though the Breach never really disappeared from view, it was at least not looming like it did in Haven.  The thing was like the Sword of Damocles, or the moon from Majora’s Mask, hanging overhead, a tacit threat.  Lyra liked not spending all her time in the shadow of it all, cold and miserable.

But her sister was in Haven.  The one person who could really understand what she was going through, the sister who knew the world they came from, who knew her before the Anchor.  She wanted to go back to that comfort.  And, honestly, she was also worried about Piper.  Lyra at least knew about this world, the people in it, the forces that moved it.  Piper did not have the advantage of familiarity.  She was lost in an alien world.  Lyra wanted to be there for her, too.

So she actually found herself rushing back.  Logically she knew that Piper would more than likely be safe in Haven, especially after having set her friends to watch her, but… She’d been in Thedas for months before Piper fell through a Rift and back into her life, months of being alone, slowly coming to grips with the fact that she likely would not be able to return home.  She’d thought she’d never see her sister again.  She was feeling a little… clingy.

“You are eager to return,” Solas said after they traveled a while at the punishing pace she’d set.  It was a question couched in a statement.  Lyra grinned sheepishly.

“I want to see my sister,” she admitted.

“Of course,” Solas murmured.  “I imagine her presence is a source of relief and worry, both.”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Lyra burst out.  “Ugh, yes.  I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, but now that she’s here… Well, things aren’t exactly  _ ideal _ right now.  And she doesn’t know how to fight, either.  I mean, at least she doesn't have to go out to the fighting like me, but...”

“She is in Haven,” Cassandra said, “which is likely the safest place for her.”

“I guess,” Lyra sighed, thinking of all the myriad ways to die in Thedas.  Mages and templars going rogue and extremists on both sides attacking anything that moved. Rifts appearing all across Orlais and Ferelden and spewing out demons.  The persistent threat of Darkspawn.  And not to mention the slightly more mundane threats of bandits or civil wars.  Piper couldn't stay cooped up in Haven forever, at Lyra knew for a fact that the violence would reach even that tiny village soon enough.  The Elder One would come.

_ One problem at a time _ , Lyra chided herself.  She turned her attention back to Solas.

“I assume you are close to your sister,” he was saying.  Lyra smiled.

“Oh definitely.  We’re barely a year apart in age, and did everything together, growing up.  Well, except when it came to school.  Piper always said I was the smart one, but that’s not really true.  She’s really smart, too, just in different subjects.  I was really good at science and wanted to be a doctor.  She was amazing at music and language.  She was going to follow in the family tradition.”

“What tradition?” Sera wanted to know, just as Solas asked:

“Doctor?”

“Doctor is our word for healer,” Lyra explained, simplifying things a little.  They'd explained away their foreignness by claiming to be from a land across the Amaranthine Ocean, a single lie which actually worked to minimize the other lies they had to tell.  If they kept things vague enough, everyone simply worked off the assumption that things were different across the sea, and they didn't need to actually explain anything.  “And my family… Apparently we can trace my father’s line back to a famous skald who served the Swedish king Eric the Victorious… ah, Sweden is a county where we’re from.  And my mother’s line was also descended from a famous bard in Ireland, another country.  Both of my parents were musicians: my father taught music theory at a university, and my mother performed music professionally, like a bard kind of.”

“‘Splains yer names,” muttered Sera.  Lyra laughed.

“Yeah, that’s a tradition from my mother’s family, I guess.  Everyone has music-related names.  My mother and her brothers were named for famous composers.”

“Do you sing, too?” Cassandra asked.

“Yeah,” she said.  “We used to perform together, when we went to the same school.  There’s competitions, schoolchildren sing or play a piece of music to show off their abilities, and professionals judge them.  We won lots of those.”

“Borin’,” Sera declared, and spurred her horse on ahead.  Lyra shook her head at the elf’s back, more amused than anything.

“You are fortunate to have reunited with your sister,” Cassandra said, staring out over her horse’s ears with a fixed sort of gaze.  Lyra remembered suddenly that Cassandra had once lost a beloved brother.

“Yes,” Lyra agreed simply, quietly.

* * *

Piper was the first thing Lyra saw upon riding into Haven.  She didn’t realize it at first, seeing only a woman crouching with a small knot of soldiers around a half-built debris shelter, pointing at something as she spoke.  Lyra did a double-take when she realized she recognized the woman.

“Piper?” she blurted in surprise.  Her sister’s head jerked up, and then Piper was running across the snowy ground.  Lyra scrambled to dismount, her feet hitting the ground just in time to catch her sister’s hug.  They spun around, laughing.

“You’re back!” Piper said, grinning broadly.  Lyra could feel her face stretching with an answering grin.

“I am!  I missed you!  What’re you doing out here?  You didn’t join my army, did you?”

“Ha!” Piper snorted.  “Yeah right.  No, I’m teaching the Commander’s troops cold weather survival and basic first aid.”

“I see that,” her eyes flicked over Piper’s shoulder toward the shelter and abandoned soldiers.  They were staring, hesitance and awe in their uneasy stances.  “When did that start?”

“A couple days after you left.  I didn’t want to sit around doing nothing, so I talked to your advisors, told them what I could do.  Your Commander was excited to learn I could teach his city-boy recruits how not to die in the snow.”

“It is good that you are making a place for yourself here,” Cassandra said.  Lyra startled a little, having forgotten that her team was right behind her.  Sera and Solas continued on, leading their horses to the stables and Horsemaster Dennet’s care, but Cassandra had paused with Lyra.  Piper looked up at the still-mounted Seeker, a flash of mischief brightening her eye.

“I considered spending my days weeping into a pillow,” she said.  “But I figured sweat is more productive than tears, so to speak.”

Cassandra grunted.  “I see you also share your sense of humor with your sister.”

She was treated to twin smirks, and Lyra was secretly delighted when she made a disgusted noise and nudged her horse onward.  Lyra glanced over at Piper, grinning.  “Hey, I gotta report and clean up, but after, let’s meet up at the tavern and—”

“ _ No _ ,” Piper said sharp, quick.  Lyra’s eyes went wide and her mouth snapped shut.  Piper’s face went red, and she looked away.  “I mean, I’d rather just stay in our cabin.”

“Pips?”

“I need to get back to work.”

“Piper!”  Lyra took a step forward as Piper turned and marched back toward her students, but remembered where they were and pulled up short.  She bit her lip and watched Piper retreat.  Something was obviously wrong.  Piper wasn’t okay, and Lyra wasn’t sure what was wrong.  But this wasn’t the place or the time.  They were surrounded by people, Piper’s students watching.  Lyra didn’t want to make a scene or drag something potentially painful out of her sister in public.  She’d have to wait.

“Shit,” she said, quiet but heartfelt.


	8. Everything For You

**Prompt: Everything for You**

**Word count: 1,418**

* * *

 

The Herald strode into the War Room like it was a battle, jaw set, shoulders forward, fists clenched.  She walked up to the table, planted her knuckles on it, and leaned in.  “Let’s make this fast.”

The advisors exchanged glances in the beat of silence that followed.

“There is little to report on our end,” said Cullen finally.  “Harriet and the smiths have been making good use of the materials you and the scouts have been bringing in from the Hinterlands, Fallow Mire, and Storm Coast.  Our forces have grown to over two hundred, and training is progressing satisfactorily.”

“I have secured trading partners in Nevarra, and the first shipments of wool cloth from Highever will be arriving within a fortnight,” Josephine said.  “Representatives from the dwarven Carta are here and I am currently negotiating a lyrium trade.”

“The Chantry has cut us off, then?” the Herald asked, frowning.  Leliana noticed her eyes darted to Cullen and away again.

“When they denounced us and declared you a heretic,” Leliana told her.  “Fortunately, we had anticipated such a response, and had begun stockpiling lyrium for our templars and mages.  We have not yet begun to feel the lack.  Josie is simply being proactive.”

“That’s good,” the Herald said, nodding.  “Okay.  Anything else, Lady Montilyet?”

“No, Herald.”

“I have nothing to report for now, Herald,” Leliana said.

“Okay.  You all should have gotten my reports, and the missives from the scout encampments, but did you have any questions about my mission to the Fallow Mire?”

“No, Lady Herald, your reports were quite detailed,” Cullen replied as Josephine nodded agreement.

“Right, well, Cassandra said two of the soldiers who were captured were injured badly enough that they will not be able to resume their duties with the Inquisition.  I’d like to make sure they are taken care of, that we’re not just going to send them off with their severance pay and forget about them without ensuring that they’ll be able to provide for themselves with their disabilities.  I’m not sure which of you is best suited for that task, but I’d like it seen to.  Any thoughts?”

“That is a very generous and compassionate thing, my Lady Herald,” said Josephine, scribbling frantically at her scribe’s board.  “I can see to it that some funds are allocated to pursue the venture.”

“I know of places that will hire disabled soldiers as workers,” Cullen said.  “In Ferelden and in the Free Marches.”

“I can create a network for finding more,” Leliana put in.  “It would be good to have a more contacts; these soldiers are likely not going to be the only ones.”

“There are also jobs here that can be filled by those individuals,” Cassandra spoke up.  “If the soldiers wish to remain with the Inquisition.”

“Excellent,” the Herald said, a little of the worry in her expression easing.  “Thank you all, please go ahead and work on that.”

They nodded or murmured their assent, and she looked around the room at each of them one last time, gaze questioning.  One by one, they affirmed that they had no further business to discuss.  The Herald dismissed them, and marched out in the same way she’d marched in.

“...Is she alright?” Cullen asked the room at large, after a brief pause in which the four advisors watched her go.

“She was fine in the field,” said Cassandra.

“She may be worried about her sister,” said Leliana.  “The lady has been having trouble settling in.”

“She has?” both Josephine and Cullen said in surprise.

“I thought… That is, my Corporal always has positive reports… And she’s good with the recruits...”  Cullen continued, brow furrowing.

“She always seems cheerful when I see her,” Josephine added.  Their Ambassador looked dismayed, as if she had personally failed the Herald’s sister somehow.

“She has a good public mask,” Leliana allowed.  “But when she is done with her duties, after she smiles and greets us politely, what does she do?  She doesn’t interact with anybody outside of the bounds of her duties.  When she is not teaching your recruits or learning mabari handling, she is shut away in the Herald’s house.  She has no friends here, no family when her sister is on missions.  She is a stranger, in an unfamiliar land.”

“There must be something we can do,” Josephine said.  “She’s the Herald of Andraste’s sister; it is important that we make her feel welcome here among us.”

“We are already doing it,” Leliana said calmly.  “We have given her a place here.  She has a job, she has support.  We are as polite and accommodating as she is to us.  As long as these things remain, I believe it is just a matter of time for her to become entirely settled here.  And of course, her sister will help.  The Herald will be able to push her as we cannot, force her to interact more with the people within the Inquisition.”

“Is she going to be a problem if she doesn’t integrate?” Cassandra asked.

“No, but as Josie said, it would behoove us to cultivate a warm relationship with the Herald’s sister.  She is going to be in the view of the people almost as much as her sister, and we need to make sure what they see reflects positively on us.”  Leliana noted that Cullen looked mildly discomfited with this assertion.  A pity that he wasn’t more inclined toward politics; he had a fine strategic mind, but no stomach for the Game.

But that was what she and Josie were for.

“But enough talk,” she said.  “We all have work to do.”

It worked well enough as a dismissal, though Cullen hesitated a bare instant, grip tightening, then loosening, on the pommel of his sword.  Cassandra strode to the door almost at once, and Josephine trailed after more slowly.  Leliana herself went at once to her command tent, dismissing the scout who had been receiving outgoing and incoming messages for Leliana while she attended the War Table session.

The Chantry bells rang for _hora sexta_ , using the simple pattern that nearly all rural Chantries in Ferelden used.  It evoked memories of Lothering, that brief time of serenity and comfort in Leliana’s life between Marjolaine and the Blight.  As had become her habit since her tenure as a lay-sister, Leliana knelt beside her desk to say the Midday Prayers.

“The air itself rent asunder, spilling light unearthly from the waters of the Fade, opening as an eye to look upon the Realm of Opposition in dire judgment,” she chanted to her clasped hands.  “And in that baleful eye I saw the Lady of Sorrow, armored in Light, holding in her left hand the scepter of Redemption.”

Leliana had devoted her life to serving the Maker, after she had escaped from Marjolaine.  She had traveled with the Hero of Ferelden to battle the Fifth Blight at His behest, becoming friends with the Wardens and the other Blight Companions.  She had stood beside His Divine, the Most Holy Justinia V.  And she had lost all of them, one way or the other.  Elissa was Alistair’s Queen now, Sten returned to Par Vollen and renamed Arishok, Zevran and Shale and Oghren off on their own respective paths.  Morrigan had disappeared after the final battle at Fort Drakon.  Wynne was dead, one of the first victims of the mage-templar conflict.  And Justinia…

“She descended from on high, and a great voice thundered from the top of every mountain and pinnacle across creation…”

How could any of this be part of His plan?  How can any of this be allowed to happen to His children?  And yet, there continue to be signs of His presence.  Justinia, when she had just been Revered Mother Dorothea, had saved Leliana, Sketch, and Silas from Marjolaine’s machinations.  The vision she’d had in Lothering, that set her on the path to becoming a Blight Companion.  And now, Lyra Hjaltason.  Was she truly sent by the Maker’s Bride?

Part of Leliana wanted to turn away, to stop believing; the part that had been wounded again and again, even though she’d given everything for the Maker.  But another part of her still believed, wholly and truly, still trusted the promises of the Maker and Andraste.  Leliana wasn’t sure which part of herself to listen to.

Leliana squeezed her eyes shut and finished the prayer.  "‘All heads bow! All knees bend! Every being in the Realm of Opposition pay homage, for the Maker of All Things returns to you!’"


	9. Health and Healing*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See that asterisk next to the title? That means we've come to our first chapter with music in it! Yaaaay! At the end of the chapter, check out the note for the song title and a link to a youtube vid of it.

**Prompt: Health and Healing***

**Word count: 1,193**

* * *

 

Varric almost missed it, which secretly terrified him.  If anybody asked, however, he made it just in time for the good part.  He didn’t need to witness the moping, drinking, and weedling that took place before Lyra finally persuaded her sister to let her introduce her to the Inquisition’s resident minstrel.  He didn’t even really need to witness how the two women had hit it off immediately, heads tipped together over the words of a song Maryden had been working on, passing the minstrel’s long-necked lute back and forth between them.  All Varric really needed to see was what happened when Piper began to sing for the first time.

The fact that she, also, fell from a Rift would have made her a person of interest.  She came from the Fade, just like the Herald.  But not only that, she was the Herald’s  _ sister.   _ Varric was already hearing whispers, rumors.   _ They are Ebris and Vivial, Andraste’s daughters returned to us.  Andraste sent Her daughters back into the world to do Her work. _

He wasn’t sure if the rumors originated with the soldiers who whispered them, or if the Nightingale had sown the seeds herself.  He supposed it didn’t much matter, at this point.  The people had claimed the idea, made it theirs.  And, truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure he  _ didn’t _ believe it.  Weird stuff kept happening around the Herald, stuff that made everything that had happened to Hawke look like child’s-play.  One thing was for certain: by the time all of this was over, the Herald would be a legend.  And Varric had to admit he was curious where her sister would fit into the story.

The music was spilling out of the Singing Maiden when he approached it, ready for his evening indulgence of a mug of ale and some people-watching.  While not unusual, it sounded different than most nights; dead silence as everyone listened rather than the talking and laughter that generally overlaid the music in the tavern.

Varric pulled the door open and saw at once what was going on.  The Herald and her sister were sitting by the tavern’s hearth, the fire gilding their hair, adding flame to Piper’s golden head and picking out golden highlights in the Herald’s red.  Andraste’s colors.  Varric made a mental note about the effect, to use in his writing at some point.

They were singing, and Piper was picking out a quick, complicated rhythm on Maryden’s long-necked lute.  Piper sang the melody, and Lyra enhanced it with harmonies.

_ “So give me hope in the darkness, that I will see the light _

_ ‘Cause oh that gave me such a fright _

_ But I will hold as long as you like  _

_ Just promise we will be alright.” _

Varric paused just inside the door, listening and watching the tavern’s patrons enraptured faces.  The song was sweetly sad, wistful and emotional.  Piper’s clever hands on the lute somehow managed to keep the words from becoming too sorrowful.  Maryden’s face gleamed with excitement; Varric was willing to bet she’d be begging them to teach her the song before the last notes even faded.

_ “But the ghosts that we knew made us black and blue _

_ But we’ll live a long life _

_ But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view _

_ And we’ll live a long life.” _

As the song drew to a close, Varric marveled at the effect the performance had on the audience packed into the tavern.  The sisters practically had the people eating out of their hands.  There was adoration in every face, tears in some eyes.  In anybody else, the ability to tug on the hearts of the people might be worrying, but Varric had been watching the Herald closely in the months after she’d appeared, and he knew she was one of those do-gooders, trying to do the best for everyone, and sometimes giving up most of herself in the process.  Her sister seemed cut from the same cloth.  In them, if anything, it was reassuring.  He just hoped the world didn’t chew them up and spit them out, like it had the other do-gooder in Varric’s life...

Piper and Maryden quickly fell into an intense, whispered conversation.  Lyra quirked a smile at them, then stood, her gaze passing over the crowd.  She noticed Varric, made eye-contact, and started making her way toward him as her smile widened.

“Varric!  Good to see you.”

“Herald,” he replied.  “That was quite a performance.”

Her smile softened as she looked back at her sister.  “Piper’s amazing; music’s where her heart is.  Back home, she was always surrounded by it.  If she wasn’t listening to it, she was making it, even it that just meant humming or whistling.”

Lyra paused briefly.  “She hadn’t done any of that since she came here.  She was even avoiding the tavern because there was music here.  I was worried for her; when Piper goes quiet like that, it means she’s depressed.  I thought if I got her to come here, to hear the music and maybe to sing, it would break her out of it.  It almost backfired on me, but…”

Varric watched Piper slowly run through the first verse of the song as Maryden scribbled notes, quill shivering with the speed of her hand.  “She seems better now.”

“Yeah.  It only took mead, half a mug of ale, and some concentrated begging and pleading on my part,” Lyra said dryly.  “But I suppose she’s lucky.  When I was dwelling on everything, after first showing up, Cassandra was the one to give me a kick in the rear.  And she was rather literal about it.”

Varric snorted.  “Feelings, the Seeker’s not so good at, but violence…?”

“It worked,” Lyra shrugged, “and I never felt like she doesn’t support me.  Just, she’s not exactly gentle.  I hope my way is a little softer.”

“You’re worrying too much, I think,” Varric said.

“I hope so.”

“SING SOMETHIN’ DIRTY!” Sera bellowed from across the tavern.  Varric watched Lyra’s eyes round, and her face go pale.  Her head whipped around to look at the corner where Piper and Maryden sat.  Her sister met her gaze and gave a wicked smile, eyes flashing with mischief.

No, Varric was sure the Herald didn’t have anything to worry about.  Her sister seemed to be in high spirits.

“Don’t you dare, Piper!”

“Don’t be a kill-joy, Miss Glowy-bits,” retorted Sera.  Lyra ignored the elf for the moment, all her focus seemingly on staring her sister down.

“Piper, I swear… Don’t even think about corrupting my people with— _ Piper! _ ” Her voice snapped like a whipcrack as her sister struck a chord, smirking.  The soldiers populating the tavern watched the display with amusement and curiosity.  Some of them yelled admonishments to Piper, while others goaded her on.  The two women maintained their locked gazes, and then Piper rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Oh, alright, you wet blanket.”

Lyra let out a sigh, relief writ large in her expression.  “ _ Good _ .  Tha—”

“I’ll save that song for a special occasion.” Piper winked.

“Ugh,” Lyra said, proving that she had been spending far too much time with the Seeker.  Still, Varric couldn’t help but to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that appears is "Ghosts That We Knew" by Mumford and Sons. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQOswcEbSAA
> 
> Of course, Lyra and Piper have altered it a little for two people and one weird whatever-instrument-Maryden-plays.
> 
> Also, the dirty song Piper almost sings will probably make an appearance at some point. It's just so incredibly inappropriate, I have to scandalize Thedas with it eventually.


	10. Breaking Away

**Prompt: Breaking Away**

**Word count: 1,755**

* * *

 

The mabari was back.  One of the fawn-colored ones; he thought its name was Finn.  The dog trotted up to him sometime in the mid-morning, unprompted, and sat down at his side as he oversaw the morning drills.  Cullen let out a half-sigh, breath puffing a little cloud of vapor into the chill air.  The dog gazed out at the recruits, stern as a general.

“Back again?” Cullen asked the dog.  It tilted its head and grinned at him.  “Yes, I am sure you are pleased with yourself.”

The Lady Piper did have her hands full, with three mabari.  It couldn’t help that this one was intent on slipping away from her or from the pen that had been built for them when she was busy with other duties.  She’d been horribly embarrassed the first time she’d found her dog at Cullen’s heel, and had apologized profusely, assuring him that she’d train the mabari better and make sure he wasn’t bothered again.

Cullen had stumbled and bumbled through an assurance that he wasn’t bothered at all, that he liked mabari, that Finn had been perfectly well-behaved, really.  He hadn’t liked how she’d fallen other herself apologizing, as if he were some ogre she’d needed to appease.  She’d relaxed a bit in the end, managed a wavering little smile, but Cullen was fairly certain that it had been his own awkward bumbling that had calmed her, more than any of the words that he’d said.

The second time, she’d still been embarrassed, but she’d given him a sheepish smile as she’d approached and her general manner had been less stiff and anxious.  The third time, she’d said: “I think he might have adopted you.”

Cullen had blinked and looked down at the dog, who panted up at him and sat down heavily on top of his foot.  He’d looked at Lady Piper hesitantly.  “I don’t mind his presence, my lady.  He never causes any problems.  I realize it might not be wisest, in terms of discipline, to let him have his way, but… As long as it causes no problems for you, I would not mind if this habit is allowed to continue.”

He’d practiced, in his mind, saying it.  He’d been pleased when it had come out right.  Lady Piper had smiled at him, the same fond smile that she gave every time he was kind to her dogs.  It still made his ears go hot.

Even thinking about it was making him flustered.  

“Switch!” he bellowed, and the recruits shuffled and reassembled themselves so that the attackers were now defending and vice versa.  He strode down the line, observing their technique and form, correcting any mistakes he saw.  Finn trotted beside him, perfectly disciplined as any war hound.

Around this time of day, he knew that Lady Piper was with the alchemist Adan, co-teaching a group of recruits what she called ‘first aid.’  Since the Herald was in residence, resting after her mission in the Fallow Mire, he expected she was with them.  She and Lady Piper had introduced the idea of every soldier carrying a first aid kit with them in the field, something they said was common in their homeland.

“I’d wanted to do this earlier,” the Herald had admitted.  “But I was always going off into the Hinterlands and everything, so I wouldn’t have been able to teach anybody anything.  But Piper knows as much as I do about first aid, so now that she’s here she can help.”

The two women had managed to persuade Adan to provide them with healing and regeneration potions, small phials of each that were included in the first aid kits.  They weren’t full doses and wouldn’t completely heal a wound, but the smaller doses let them stretch their resources further and actually outfit every recruit with a kit.  Besides, the Lady Herald had said with a shrug, first aid wasn’t meant to heal a person, only to keep them alive long enough to reach help for proper healing.

The idea had merit, though Cullen wasn’t sure how it would work out in the middle of a conflict.  Even mages seemed to barely have enough time to send healing spells at ailing comrades, and sometimes they were too late anyway.  Still, not all injuries out in the field occurred from battle, and the kits could be helpful in a number of other situations.

The help that the Inquisition had received from the Herald and her sister was extensive, and it seemed to expand further each day.  Cullen wasn’t sure if he believed they’d been sent by Andraste, but even if they weren’t god-sent, they certainly had the hand of the Maker on them.  They were both compassionate, steadfast, and true.  The Inquisition would not be nearly as successful without either of them.

“Keep your shields up!” he shouted over the clash of swords and scuffling feet.  He paused by the middle of the line, folding his arms across his chest.  Finn sat down at his side, still shadowing him like the most faithful orderly.  Cullen tucked a smile away at the corner of his mouth, and turned his attention back to his troops.  Finn would stick to his side like a burr until Lady Piper came to get him, and he wasn’t certain when that would be.  Beyond her first aid lessons, she also taught recruits survival skills, and had training of her own.  But, as he’d said, he didn’t mind the dog’s presence.  Cullen had always liked mabari, as any Fereldan worth his salt would.  And Finn was good company; he was good natured and well behaved.  No, Cullen definitely didn’t mind the dog’s ‘adoption’ of him, as the Lady had put it.

Cullen continued the training block, finishing it off by having the recruits take two laps around the lake.  As they jogged off, slowly and with a few stifled groans, he glanced toward the gates of Haven.  It was late afternoon, and there was no sign of Lady Piper.  It must have been a busy day…

He looked down at Finn and lifted a brow.  “Hungry, boy?”

The mabari barked, rear-end wriggling.  The recruits knew they were dismissed as soon as they finished their laps, so Cullen set off toward the Mess tent with Finn gamboling alongside him.  After getting a bowl of stew, and a bowl of scraps that the cooks knew to set aside for Lady Piper’s mabari, Cullen carried the dishes to his tent.  He set Finn’s bowl on the ground, sat down with his own.  Since Josephine was still using her office for diplomatic meetings at this time of day, Cullen did some light paperwork at the twice-mended desk in his tent.  If he didn’t load it down with stacks of books and paper, it held up well enough.  And, for once, he had an appetite, so he ate bites of stew as he scratched notes on his troop rosters.

Time passed, and before he knew it, there was a tentative scratching at the canvas of the tent.  He blinked, looking up from his desk.

“Commander?”  Lady Piper called.  “Are you in?”

Cullen opened his mouth, but had to stop and clear his throat to get his voice to work after hours of silence.  “Yes, enter.”

She slipped in through the tent flap, the orange light of the setting sun blazing in behind her.  Cullen reflexively tried to stand to greet her, but Finn’s head was resting in his lap, and the dog pressed down with his considerable strength and weight, whining, when he tried to move.  Cullen froze, looking down at the dog.  “Ah.”

Lady Piper stepped closer to the desk, smiling, tilting her head to look around the edge where Finn’s rump poked out.  Spotting the dog’s soulful brown eyes staring up at Cullen, she grinned.  “I think you’re stuck.  At least until Finn’s finished using you as a pillow.”

Cullen was struck a little dumb at the brightness of her regard; he was used to the soft smiles she’d give, but this was… beaming.  Nobody had smiled at him like that in more than ten years, not since he left his family to join the templars.  He blinked at her, then jolted as he realized he should answer.  “Um.  Yes, quite.”

She come close enough to pat Finn’s flank.  The dog exhaled loudly, but didn’t lift his head from Cullen’s leg.  He rubbed one of Finn’s velvety ears gently, avoiding looking at Lady Piper as she leaned a hip against the edge of his desk.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “it might be time to consider the fact that Finn has clearly decided that he’s  _ your  _ dog.”

Cullen’s head jerked up.  “My lady?”

Her blue eyes had a spark of good humor.  “I know everyone thought they were imprinted on me, but I kind of think Finn’s actually imprinted on you.”

Startled, Cullen looked back down at the mabari.  “I… You may be right.  I apologize.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” she said.  “Actually, I’m glad.  I’ve been feeling a little guilty, trying to split my attention between my duties and three dogs.  I was worried I wasn’t giving Finn enough.”

Finn lifted his head from Cullen’s lap, and twisted to look at her, giving a little whine.  She stroked his head.  “It’s a relief that he has you.”

Cullen stared.  She looked up, met his gaze, then her eyes darted to the side and she colored delicately.  “Um.  I know you said that you don’t mind having Finn around, but letting him tag along with you is different from actually taking care of him, being responsible for him.  If you have too many duties… I mean, I know you’re always busy, as the Commander…”

“I never expected to be chosen by a mabari,” Cullen blurted.  “But, of course I would be… be honored to take over the care of Finn.  My schedule can certainly handle the addition of what duties are included with that.”

She beamed at him again.  “I’m so glad.  I know you’ll take good care of each other.  Lyra told me you were a good man, and I could see it.  I know I can trust you.”

_ A good man?  _ Cullen’s thoughts ground to a halt and the words echoed in his mind.   _ A good man?  Him?  Good?  She trusted him? _

“I shall endeavor to be worthy of that trust,” he said, voice a little hoarse.  And his heart turned over in his chest when she smiled at him again.


	11. 33%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter out of schedule because I wanted to? I'm a little too excited to get to chapter 12, which comes with a song. The song is one that I super love, so I'm giving you an extra chapter AND 12 will be posted early, on Wednesday.

**Prompt: 33%**

**Word count: 1,184**

* * *

 

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Lyra demanded, breaking the quiet they’d been working in.  Piper glanced up from her pile of embrium, hands pausing in the task of stripping one stalk of its flowers.

“What?”

“I know you Pips, don’t think I can’t tell there’s something bothering you.”

Piper grimaced, looked back down at the flower harvest.  “It’s… Well, can I ask you this: What do you think of the Commander?”

“Cullen?” Lyra’s brows rose.

“It’s just,” Piper glanced around, but they were alone in the herbalist’s hut.  “Well, I remember you talking about him before, when you were playing the games.  He was in all three, and you were really upset with him during the second one because he’d become all…”

“Holier-than-thou and bigoted,” Lyra finished dryly.  “‘Mages aren’t people, and templars have rule over them by divine right.’”

Piper grimaced.  “Yes, that.  I… That’s hard to understand, because he’s so kind, and, well, adorkable.  All that’s not just a front, is it?  I mean, is he only nice to me because I’m not a mage?  Is he still prejudiced?”

Lyra set down her mortar and pestle, and sighed.  “That’s complicated.  I suppose you could kind of say he is prejudiced.  But I can sort of understand where he’s coming from, because it’s a prejudice born of trauma.  If you remember me talking about him, do you remember me talking about Fenris?”

Piper frowned in thought.  “The guy who used to be a slave?  Hated mages?”

“That’s the one.  He hated mages because he was enslaved and horribly abused by one.  And, similarly, Cullen was tortured by blood mages and the demons they’d summoned, for… God, I don’t even know how long; the games were never really clear on that.  Days, at least.  He wasn’t allowed to sleep, he wasn’t allowed to eat or drink.  They kept him alive through magic, for sport.  He watched his fellow templars, and the mages he was supposed to be protecting, get slaughtered, too.”

“I think I understand,” Piper said quietly.  “He’s afraid of what mages are capable of; he doesn’t trust them not to do what those mages did.  And his religion says that mages need to be locked up, that the templars are following their god’s will.  It all combines into an attitude toward mages that is hardly complimentary.”

“Yes.  But he’s left the templars, at great risk to himself, and followed Cassandra and the Divine here to try to broker peace.  Cullen wasn’t always a good man, but he  _ can  _ be, and he’s working towards that.”

Piper was quiet for a while.  “Is that why you told me I could go to him for anything while you’re gone?”

“Yes,” Lyra said at once.  “The Cullen here and now?  Yes, I trust you with him.  He’s regained himself, his principles.”

“You wouldn’t have trusted him before?” Piper asked shrewdly.  Lyra sighed again.

“No, I don’t think I would have.  He was scared and angry for a long time after Kinloch, and you know what scared and angry people are capable of.  Not to mention that he was fairly pickling himself in lyrium.  It makes them forget, you know.  It blunts memories and emotions, and Cullen back then was desperate to escape his memories.”

“That’s…” Piper hesitated.  “God.  That’s depressing.  Nobody stopped him?”

“Eventually, he stopped himself,” her sister shrugged.  “But no.  Templars can get higher doses than the usual if they have permission from their superiors.  And Meredith had everyone on increased lyrium anyway, because of all the unrest in Kirkwall.  Not that she would have really cared even if that hadn’t been the case.  As long as the templars aren’t stealing lyrium from them, the Chantry is perfectly happy ignoring any abuses of the stuff.”

Piper made a disgruntled noise and buried her face in her hands.  “Ugh.  And you liked playing these games?”

“Well, I thought all the conflicts and imperfections made the world really interesting.  Of course,” Lyra said dryly, “that was before I dropped into the world and all that shit suddenly became  _ my  _ problem to solve.”

They both fell silent for a while, but didn’t turn back to their work.  Finally, Lyra spoke once more, her voice more tentative.  “Pips, why are you asking about Cullen?  Did something happen?”

“No, just… I... we’re kind of friends now?  Almost?  But I remembered what you’d said, so I just wanted to check.  You know, that he’s… safe.”

“Oh.”  Lyra’s head tilted.  “Well, I’d say so.  I mean, he does sometimes say things that would make a social worker cringe, but he is trying to be better.  And, you know, you can romance him with a female mage inquisitor in the third game.  He gets lots better after that.  Even marries her.  Doesn’t protest if the Divine you install abolishes the Circles.”

“That is an improvement,” Piper agreed, calming a little.  “But you’re not a mage and you’re definitely not going to romance him, so will that improvement take place?”

“Ha!  Yeah, no, definitely not romancing him.  But Cullen’s not stupid, and I like to think we all have very compelling arguments for why the Circles don’t work.  I believe he’ll come around even without a magey girlfriend.”

“Good,” Piper said on a sigh.  “I was really hoping that I hadn’t gifted Finn to a bigot.  I mean, Finn likes him, but even an asshole can be nice to dogs.”

“Whatever else Cullen is, it’s not an asshole.  Even at his worst he was, I dunno.  Forty percent asshole?  Thirty?  Eh.  Thirty-three.”

“Oddly specific.”

“Well, if you take the dialogue in Dragon Age II to be accurate, he did once say that you can’t treat mages like people.  That’s pretty asshole-ish.  But then, he was still always at least  _ civil  _ to mages… There’s lots of variables that went into my calculations.”

Piper snorted, then asked: “And now?”

“Oh, maybe ten percent asshole.  It kind of depends on when you ask him.  If he’s having a bad day with his withdrawal symptoms, he can be pretty sharp, but otherwise he’s, like you said, adorkable.”

“Yes,” Piper said, lips quirking.  Now that the atmosphere in the room has lightened, they both turned back to their work in unconscious unison.  Piper stripped the flowers from two stems before Lyra spoke again, her voice sly.

“You know, Cullen’s pretty safe for crushes, too.”

Piper inhaled and choked on her own spit.  “Lyra!”

“Oh come on, I can acknowledge that he’s handsome.  And the awkwardness is endearing.”

“Yeah, I just… What if we get sent home?  I’d feel bad if I just… disappeared on him.”  Piper peeped at her sister from the corner of her eye, then winced and turned to look at her head-on.  Lyra’s eyes were wide and her mouth slightly open.

“Piper!  I only said ‘ _ crush _ ’!  This doesn’t sound like a crush!  Wait.  Is this the real reason you were asking about him?”

Piper grimaced and ducked her head.  “It’s not like I’m in love with him.  It’ll be fine.  I’ll ignore it.”

“Oh, Pips.”

“It’ll be  _ fine _ ,” she said severely.  Then, softly: “It’ll have to be.”


	12. Burning*

**Prompt: Burning***

**Word count: 1,719**

* * *

 

Cullen woke suddenly, with a jolt that rattled the frame of his too-small cot.  He half-rose and was reaching for his sword before he realized the screams ringing in his ears were all in his mind.  Echoing memories.

He let out a ragged breath, turning to sit at the edge of the cot and leaning over his knees.  His shirt clung to him with sweat, and his hands were trembling.  This time, it wasn’t from withdrawal, but rather a lingering reaction to the nightmares.  Images from Kinloch, of the slaughter and his own torture.  Kirkwall, when the scales had finally fallen from his eyes and he’d seen what had been done to the mages, to the Tranquil, to the city.

The content of the nightmares wasn’t new, but since he’d stopped taking his philter, they had become more vivid, more frequent.  Half the time, the withdrawal made sleep impossible.  The other half, it was the nightmares.  Both made him sweat, made him shake, made even the canvas walls of the tent collapse around him, suffocating.  He burned and could not breathe.

Cullen jammed his feet into boots, and threw his old cloak on, the one he’d worn on the journey over from Kirkwall.  It was wool, oiled to resist the dampness of oceanspray, a consideration he’d learned the first time he’d crossed the Waking Sea.  It was ragged, well-worn from the sea and from the long trek from the coast to Haven, but he didn’t want to deal with the weight and the heat and the fuss of his armor and commander’s cloak.

He fled his tent, and went down to the small dock that jutted out over the frozen lake outside Haven’s gate.  There had been a similar place, in Honnleath, when he was growing up.  A small pond, a wooden dock that functioned as little more than a place to fish, and silence.

It was quieter here than in Honnleath.  There were no frogs here, or bugs.  In the dead of night, there was little wildlife to make the small soft noises of nature.  Here in Haven, there was only the hush of wind and rustle of pine boughs.

Cullen took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the cold air aching in his lungs and the exhale billowing out in clouds.  His oiled cloak wasn’t enough to keep the chill from his sweat-soaked shirt, and he cooled off quickly.  After only moments, he shivered, but hesitated to return to his tent.  He knew he wouldn’t be able to find rest in what remained of the night; the dreams would be waiting for him, as they always did.

The Chantry would be open, and mostly empty.  The side room across the nave from Josephine’s office had been turned into sleeping quarters for Leliana, Josephine, and Mother Giselle.  But if Cullen was quiet, he wouldn’t disturb them.  In fact, he could just go into their commandeered War Room at the back and he wouldn’t have to worry whether they’d hear him praying.  That room had been chosen for its purpose because of its thick walls and sturdy door.  A shout could be heard through them, perhaps, but not conversational voices and certainly not a single man quietly singing the Chant.  Nobody would notice he was there.

Cullen had spent a lot of time in Chantries all through his life.  From the tiny building in Honnleath that doubled as the village schoolhouse, to the soaring space and massive statues of the Kirkwall Chantry.  The Chantry at the Academy, and the one within Kinloch Hold.  Each nave had had a...personality, of a sort.  Where Honnleath and Kinloch had been unadorned, though lovingly cared for by their devotees, the Academy and Kirkwall had been grand.  Full of gleaming gold, polished stone, and rich draperies.  The finery had ostensibly been to exalt the Maker, but Cullen had always found it made him feel distant, low, and forgotten.  He’d always preferred the more modest rural Chantries, which felt warm and honest.

Despite those differences, there were things that all Chantries shared.  The sense of preternatural stillness, that feeling that one needed to keep one’s voice low, soft.  The smoky-sweetness of the incense that permeated everything.  The scent never failed to evoke feelings of comfort.

He pushed open the doors slowly, making sure they did not creak, and closed them in the same way.  Only once they were firmly shut did he turn and begin to walk down the nave.  He tried to step as lightly as he could; Leliana had often teased him about his lack of stealth or subtlety.

He paused mid-step partway to the War Room, brow furrowing.  He thought he heard…

He crept forward a few paces, then froze as he heard it again.

Weeping.

Cullen frowned.  It seemed to be coming from the dungeons.  But they didn’t have anyone down there, did they?  He hadn’t received any reports that they’d taken any prisoners.  Leliana had an office of sorts down there, but… Cullen couldn’t imagine her crying down there in the dead of night.  It did sound like a woman, however.

Should he check?

He hesitated briefly, but he knew he really should check it out, so he moved quietly to the door that led down to the lower level of the Chantry.  The sound of weeping grew louder as he crept down the stairs.  Halfway down, he picked out the softer sounds of another woman singing under the sobbing.

 _“Iđitguovssus girdilit._ __  
_Hávski lei go iđistit._ __  
_Vilges dolggiid geigestit,_ _  
_ _Várrogasat salastit.”_

He couldn’t understand the words, but the melody was slow and sweet, like a lullaby.  And he recognized the voice; Lady Piper.  He’d heard that she had taken to singing with the minstrel, Maryden, in the tavern some nights, but he hadn’t heard her himself.  She had a lovely voice.

Cullen paused at the foot of the stairs, hesitant to interrupt or otherwise make himself known.  If it was Lady Piper singing, then it was probably the Herald who was crying.  He wasn’t certain if his presence would be welcome, or even necessary.  He probably should leave, but he found himself unwilling to do so.  The Lady’s song soothed her sister, but it also soothed him.  He could feel the tightness of his jaw relax, teeth unclenching, and his shoulders loosened as she continued singing:

 _“Njukča, njuvččažan,_ __  
_Buokčal, ligge varan._ __  
_Njukča, njuvččažan,_ _  
_ _Ovdal iđitroađi.”_

The Herald’s sobs quieted into ragged breathing as she slipped into another verse.  The style of the song was ethereal, Lady Piper’s voice intentionally breathy and soft.  Cullen leaned back against the stone wall and closed his eyes as he listened.  The stolen peace fell about him like a warm cloak.

The Herald was quiet, but her sister kept singing for a while, to what Cullen assumed was the full end of the song.

 _“Riegádahte áibbašeami,_ _  
_ _Oktovuođa váillaheami.”_

She hummed a little, then fell silent.  A beat, then two, then Cullen heaved a silent sigh and straightened from where he’d slumped against the wall.

His boot scraped against the floor as he turned to leave, loud in the stillness.  He winced, and froze, hoping he hadn’t been heard.  That hope was dashed almost immediately, as Lady Piper called out: “Hello?  Is someone there?”

Cullen mentally cursed himself, grimacing, then wiped the grimace from his face and stepped forward to reveal himself.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said quietly, as he cleared the corner and could look into Leliana’s book-filled office, where Lady Piper sat on the floor.  Her back was against the desk, and the Herald was curled with her head in her sister’s lap.  Drying tears streaked her face, but she seemed to be asleep.  “I was up in the nave and I heard…”

Cullen paused, felt color rise in his cheeks, and coughed a little.  “Is… the Herald alright?”

Lady Piper stroked her sister’s hair.  “Sleeping, right now.  But… Well.  She’ll probably be upset with me for telling you, but I think it might be good for you to know.  You’re military, and an officer during a war.  You probably have some insight you could share.”

He waited for her to continue patiently.  She went distant for a moment, looking down at her sister.  She sighed slightly, then spoke: “Things are very different where we come from.  I’m not sure how much Lyra has described it to anyone, but our lives were quite privileged and safe.  Most people, where we come from, will never see another person die from violence.  Sickness, occasionally.  But we don’t have gangs of bandits preying on travelers, and all our wars are fought far away from our homes.

“From what Lyra has told me, she was thrust straight into battle as soon as she woke here.  She watched people die right in front of her, and could not stop it.  She didn’t even have the time to administer first aid, because the mark in her hand was needed to try to close the Breach.  Against all the oaths she took when she graduated medical school, she had to leave the injured and dying behind.”

Cullen understood where she was going with this.  He’d seen some hints of it, himself, but they had been very well hidden, and he hadn’t thought much of them.  He’d thought the Herald had been coping very well, but obviously he’d been mistaken.

“Battle shock,” he said softly.  “It’s common in new recruits.  Nobody quite realizes how terrible battle really is until they have experienced it.  It’s difficult to process watching your comrades die.  Watching your enemies die, as well.  To be responsible for killing them.”

“Yes,” the Lady sighed.

“Cassandra and the others have been protecting your sister in the field, but I don’t believe most of them have noticed she struggles.  Or, like me, they believed she was coping well enough not to warrant intervention,” he said.  “But I will speak with them.  Some of them, anyway, to tell them what you have shared with me here, if that is acceptable.  They will be in a better position to assist than I am.”

She looked up at him.  “Thank you.”

The strength of the sincerity in her voice made him look away, a hand rising to grip the back of his neck.  “Of course,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Piper sings is a song called "Iđitguovssu" (Dawn Light) by a Sámi singer called Máddji. I love this song; it's beautiful. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=46WW3D5a_TU
> 
> If you want to see the lyrics translation, you can do so here: http://lyricstranslate.com/en/i%C4%91itguovssu-dawn-light.html


	13. Rivalry

**Prompt: Rivalry**

**Word count: 1,255**

* * *

 

“The mages have made their choice,” Cullen said sharply.  “Which makes our choice clearer.  Let us go to Therinfal Redoubt and ally with the templars!”

“I  _ cannot _ , in good conscience, leave the mages where they are,” snapped back the Herald.  Lyra.  “They have children with them, and the Tranquil.  Noncombatants who are now at the mercy of a Magister through no fault of their own.  Did we forget already what I found in Redcliffe?  The Venatori are killing the Tranquil and using their skulls for relics!  They’ve conscripted the mages, taken over Redcliffe.  Even if I weren’t concerned for the noncombatant mages, I’d be concerned about the potentially hostile army that’s camped out practically right at our front door!”

“They’re behind fortifications!  Redcliffe’s defenses have never been breached; we’d break upon the walls.  The—”

“There’s another way in.” Lyra looked over.  “Right, Leliana?”

Leliana wondered how she knew, and how she knew that  _ she  _ knew about it.  But now was not the time.  “Yes.  There is a small passageway from the village to the castle dungeons.  It’s too small for an army, but we could send in some of my people, a stealth strike team, to support the Herald while she and her companions enter through the main gate.”

“It’s still too risky,” Cullen protested.

“This will work.  And it’s my decision,” Lyra said.  Cullen made an inarticulate sound, frustration clear, taking two steps away from the table before spinning back.

“This is folly.”

“I am not certain I agree,” Leliana said.  “It could work.  It is unlikely Alexius would be aware of the passage.”

“I would like to contact the King of Ferelden and work with him with this,” Lyra said.  “If he marches an army up to the main gate with me, it will provide the perfect distraction for our scouts.  Also, I don’t like the idea of trying to take Redcliffe, a Fereldan arling, without even written consent from the monarch of the country.  Seems rude.”

“A good idea,” Josephine said, scribbling madly on her writing board.

“I can write him,” Leliana offered.  She hadn’t spoken to Alistair in years, but she had to admit there was still a level of affection between them even after all this time.

“Will you, please, Leliana?” Lyra asked.  Leliana inclined her head in acquiescence.  “Is that alright with you, Josephine?”

“Of course,” she replied.  It was something of an unkept secret that Leliana had been a Blight Companion; Josephine would know she knew the King personally.  “Though I should like to be kept aware of any diplomatic proceedings.”

“Commander?” Lyra said.  “Anything to advise on the matter?”

Cullen’s face was still stern and set, but he was a professional soldier through and through, and he responded thoughtfully.  “We should be forthright with King Alistair; if he knows of our plan, he will support it, and we won’t run the risk of running at cross-purposes.  I would feel better if the Inquisition forces were also mustered with the Fereldans.  I can have four squads ready in a day.”

“No,” the Herald shook her head.  “I’ll be fine with Leliana’s scouts and the King’s men.  I need you and your men for another mission.”

His hand squeezed and released his sword pommel.  “What mission?”

“You’re going to escort my sister to Therinfal Redoubt, to parlay with the templars.”

“What?” Cullen and Cassandra said in unison.  Cassandra jolted forward a step.  All trace of tension left Cullen’s face, leaving his mouth slightly open in shock, his eyes wide.  Josephine didn’t react vocally, but her pen scratched across her parchment as her hand jerked.  Truthfully, it surprised Leliana, too, but she was able to hide it.

Lyra didn’t seem pleased at all by their shocked reactions, arms crossed in annoyance.

“Did I stutter?  Yes, I want you to try to get the templars on our side, too.  Perhaps they will not want to negotiate with my sister; she carries no authority herself, aside from being the Herald of Andraste’s—” she crooked two fingers on each hand in a clearly acerbic gesture “—sister.  My preference in addressing the Breach may be for an alliance with the mages, but that isn’t the only consideration we must have.  And so, I believe we have to seek negotiations with both the mages  _ and  _ the templars.”

“The mages may protest,” Josephine pointed out.

“They’ll hardly be in a position to argue, once we save them from their idiotic mistake of indenturing themselves to Magister Alexius.” Her voice was cold and hard.  She looked each of them in the face, her stare more akin to a glare with the leashed fury behind it.  “Make no mistake.  I am not pleased with any of this.  The mages and the templars both make problems.  But what is possibly the most problematic thing about this all is that not one of you has considered that this  _ isn’t  _ a binary choice.  It  _ isn’t  _ an either-or.  Each one of you looked at the situation and assumed that there would be no way the two groups would deign to work together.  So, then, I have to wonder how, exactly, you expected the Mage-Templar War to end?  If you believe that the mages would never agree to work with the templars, how could you possibly believe the war would end with the mages back in the Circles?  At least, not without great loss of life.  'Kill every mage who refuses'.  And the templars?  If the mages win the conflict, do you think the Order will stand by?  Will they realign with the Chantry?  And if they don’t, how do they access lyrium?  What happens then?  It’s like nobody has even given thought to how all this will work in the end.  Or worse, you just thought it would end in total victory for one side or the other.

“Isn’t a goal of the Inquisition to put an end to the war?  But if we reach out and elevate one of the groups, if we pick one to support and essentially say ‘you are right, and they are wrong’, well… We’d end the war, yes, but we’d set into play the events leading up to the next war.  Pick the mages, alienate the templars.  Pick the templars, embitter the mages.  As the Inquisition, we  _ cannot  _ pick a side so totally as to cut ties with the other.   _ We _ must be the ones advocating compromise, peace.  And I intend to.  We’re reaching out to both camps.  I am going to try to persuade them to give this a chance.”

“You may cost us an alliance with either group,” Cassandra said, hawkish face stern.  Leliana watched the Herald closely.  She was standing perfectly straight, chin up, shoulders back.  Confident and unflinching in her convictions.

“I doubt that  _ every  _ mage and  _ every  _ templar is as radical as the ones our forces encounter in the Hinterlands.  If we give up on the idea of compromise, we not only lose this war but all the ones that come after.”

She reminded Leliana of Elissa.  She, too, had been steadfast in her advocacy of justice and rights.  Neither of them were naive, but still were determined for people to live up to their expectations.  And both had a force of presence that made you  _ care  _ what they thought about you.

“If we are to be a symbol,” Leliana said quietly.  “Then let us be a symbol.  Orlesian, Marcher, Fereldan.  Elf, human, dwarf, Qunari.  Mage and templar.”

The Herald looked at her.  Her voice was just as quiet.  “Yes.”


	14. Irregular Orbit

**Prompt: Irregular Orbit**

**Word count: 1,584**

* * *

 

There was a gif on the internet, Piper didn’t know what it was from, of Charlize Theron explaining how to walk with a sort of cool regal confidence.  “Core tight, shoulders down, neck long, then think  _ murder  _ and walk.”  

Whatever role Theron had been playing, the technique was easily translated to real life.  Projecting an attitude of ‘don’t fuck with me’ was incredibly helpful in a variety of situations.  Once Piper had started using the ‘murder-walk’ technique, she’d noticed that she experienced less harassment on the street, and men actually got out of her way on sidewalks.  The posture also worked as one of those power-poses, making her actually feel more confident if she held it.

Piper knew she wasn’t a particularly physically intimidating individual.  She was shorter than most humans in this world, putting her about level with elves, which really didn’t do her any favors, considering how elves were treated.  She also had petite features, and a lack of a warrior physique.  So, to make people listen to her, she had to use posture and tone tricks.

Those weren’t her only weapons here, however.

Even though the Chantry still denounced the Inquisition, called the Herald a heretic, and said talk of Andraste’s daughters reborn was blasphemy, the  _ people  _ still believed.  Because it wasn’t the Chantry that was helping them, it was the Inquisition.  Anything that Piper or Lyra did that was noteworthy was shared, and often embellished, amongst the troops, who passed it on to civilians.  With the belief of the people behind them, the Inquisition was powerful, Piper and Lyra were powerful.

Even if the Templar Order was ballsy enough to turn such a power away, there was a veritable army of nobles at the gates to Therinfal Redoubt, a presence recruited by Josephine that essentially forced the Order to agree to negotiations with the Inquisition.  To turn away Piper and her entourage in the face of those nobles’ questions and obvious Inquisition support would be tantamount to political and social suicide.  The Order would lose essentially all of its support and nobody would recognize them or their authority, effectively crippling the organization.

And if they persisted, Piper had the knowledge of their sins.  Lyra had told her, in exacting detail, what the templars were doing, what the Lord Seeker was doing—what the Lord Seeker  _ was _ .

“You want  _ me  _ to face down a fucking demon?” Piper had asked her sister flatly.  “What am I supposed to do, sing it to death?”

“Unless they’re getting dragged through the Veil by a Rift, most demons don’t go straight for the kill.  They mostly want to possess people.  Envy more than most.  It will want to take your place, use your position and power to advance its own.  You’re smart and stubborn.  There’s not a single chance you’d ever succumb to a demon, no matter what it offered you.  I don’t need you to fight it, I need you to resist it.  When it comes time to fists and swords, I’m sending Cullen, Cassandra, Solas, and Bull with you.”

It had barely reassured Piper, but she could hardly refuse.  She was sure the others could see the nerves in her, too, but they were kind enough not to bring it up.  Her anxious foot-tapping and jumpiness did mean that, when she put her game-face on and arranged her petite body into an empress’s bearing, it garnered mildly surprised glances from her companions.  She couldn’t blame them for their reactions; they’d no idea how practiced she was at pretending to be confident, and she hadn’t told them.  

She swept up to the gates of Therinfal, trailing her entourage.  The Orlesian nobles Josephine had sent as a sort of forward army were swept up along with, orbiting her like erratic little planets.  The templar who was waiting at the gate to greet the Inquisition party snapped to attention at her approached, then seemed surprised at himself for doing so.

She stopped a few paces away, to allow Lord Abernache, apparently the ringleader of the nobles, to step forward and make the introductions with all the (apparently necessary) pomp and circumstance.

“The Lady Piper Hjaltason of the Inquisition, Daughter of Andraste, sister to the Herald of Andraste, empowered to speak in her name,” Lord Abernache declared.  Piper strictly restrained herself from flinching at the absurd claims.  “And accompanying her: Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, of the Pentaghast family of Nevarra, seventy-eighth in line for the Nevarran throne.  And Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford, former acting Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, now Commander of the Inquisition forces.”

“My… lady Piper,” said the templar haltingly, looking awkward.  “I… We expected your sister.”

“I speak for my sister,” Piper said in cool, even tone, “and for the Inquisition, Ser…”

“Knight-Templar Delrin Barris,” he said, with a slight bow.  “I am the one who sent word to Cullen.”

“Indeed.  Ser Barris, I am here as gesture of good-faith.  If the Order is willing to ally itself with the Inquisition’s goals, we would be glad to have your aid in protecting the people from the dangers of the Breach.”

That was appropriately vague and didn’t promise anything, right?  Add in a very slight prod about protecting people, and she thought it was a pretty good line.  Barris cleared his throat, seeming ill at ease.

“Of course,” he said.  “Please, come this way.”

He led them through the bailey, and into a small courtyard.  They paused by a wooden construction of gears and pulleys, and Barris turned to face their party once again.  “Before we enter the keep, the Lord Seeker has requested you complete the flag ritual.”

He gestured to the side, directing Piper’s attention toward three flags hanging low on the stone wall.  The Chantry sunburst, she recognized, and the flaming sword that the Templar Order seemed to stamp on everything.  The third was a rampant dog; she wasn’t sure what that one was.

“By lifting the flags in a chosen order, you demonstrate what you believe to be important: the Chantry, the Order, or the People.”

Piper wanted to roll her eyes.  “And if I give an answer that is displeasing?  Will we then be turned away?”

“I… no,” Barris said, flushing a little.  “It is simply meant to show your priorities.”

“Asinine foolishness,” Lord Abernache sneered.

Lyra had said she could either refuse to do the ritual, or agree to it.  If she agreed, she’d have to find some way to make sure Lord Abernache didn’t enter the keep itself, or else he would be killed.  The flags themselves could be raised in any order she might want; that part didn’t really change anything.  But Piper considered the flags, and the small audience of nobles and templars, and her eyes narrowed.  They wanted to know what she thought?  Fine, then.  She’d tell them.

“Very well,” she said, and stalked to the pulleys.  The flag of the hound rampant—the standard of the people, or at least the people of Ferelden—rose to the highest limit.  Piper left the other two flags where they were, stepping away and turning to scan the reactions of those watching.

There was some wide eyes, some frowns, a few thoughtful looks.

“People are the only thing that matters,” she proclaimed, not raising her voice but using a vocal trick to project her words to that they carried.  “Any organization should be made of the people, and work  _ for  _ the people.  Otherwise none of it matters.”

“None of  _ this  _ matters,” Lord Abernache snapped.  “This is a waste of time.”

“On the contrary, Lord Abernache,” Piper said crisply.  “I believe it does matter.  If I am to be negotiating an alliance with the Order, then the Order should know where I stand.  To that end, I would appreciate if you would personally see to communicating my statements to the nobles and the templars outside, who did not witness this.”

He sputtered a little, clearly not wanting to be absent for the actual negotiations, but he had placed himself under her in rank and command by his previous words and actions, and could not now turn against that without losing face.  He left, and Piper mentally breathed a sigh of relief.  She would have simply ordered him to stay outside if he’d protested, to save him from the death Lyra said awaited, but it wouldn’t have been particularly diplomatic and Josephine would have killed her for doing something so indelicate.

She turned back to her companions, and Barris inclining his head pensively toward her.  “You have completed the ritual.  I’ll take you to see the Lord Seeker now.”

He led them to a side door, but hesitated before opening.  Seemingly coming to a decision, he turned, his pale green eyes landing on Piper.  “My lady, I must inform you: Things have been changing rapidly within the Order.  The Lord Seeker pulled us away from our vows, withdrawing the Order from behind the Chantry and sequestering us here in Therinfal as if awaiting a siege.”

“A Seeker can claim control over the templars by holy mandate,” Cassandra said.

“Yes, and that is what he has said he has done,” Barris said.  “But he is… erratic.  And preoccupied with  _ status  _ and  _ power _ .  And the officers…”

“What about the officers?” Cullen asked.

“Something strange is happening here, Commander, my lady,” Barris said, uncomfortably.  “I am… greatly uneased.”

“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,” Piper murmured, then spoke to him: “I am aware, Ser Barris.  I thank you for your warning.”

He nodded, expression still troubled, and ushered them into the keep.


	15. Acceptance

**Prompt: Acceptance**

**Word count: 1,543**

* * *

 

Cassandra watched, aghast, as the Herald’s sister let out a furious shout and kicked the Lord Seeker in the groin.  Had she tried to do so at any other time, she would have been hurt more than he, but the Inquisition had kitted her out in fine serpentstone armor for the occasion and so the Lord Seeker shrieked in furious pain and stumbled backward, bent over.

“Envy!” Lady Piper shouted, stalking forward after him, “Reveal yourself, demon!”

Cullen cursed and drew his sword as the Lord Seeker straightened… and elongated, image of templar armor melting away into corpse-pale flesh and spidery limbs.  Cassandra gave a wordless shout, and drew her blade as well.

The demon—Envy—roared at them, then streaked backwards, into the great hall of Therinfal and through a shimmering green barrier at the back of it.

They gaped after it, then turned surprised eyes to Lady Piper.  She was pale but for two spots of angry color on her cheeks, and rage and fear warred in her eyes.  Bull was the first to speak.  “Damn, boss, how’d you know he was possessed?”

“He wasn’t possessed; Envy was pretending to  _ be _ him,” she said grimly.  “And I knew because it tried to get into my head.”

“What?” Cullen exclaimed immediately.  “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” Piper said.  “Asshole didn’t know what he was getting into.”

Her words were bold, but Cassandra could see the tremor in her hands.  She’d been shaken by the encounter.

“Maker’s breath!” Ser Barris exclaimed.  “Has that thing been impersonating the Lord Seeker this whole time?”

“For a good while, at least,” Piper said.  “But all this can wait.  We need to find it and kill it, before it can do more damage.”

“To get through that barrier, we’ll need lyrium,” Barris said.  “And the Knight-Lieutenants.”

“We can retrieve what you need,” Cassandra proclaimed as they walked further into the hall.  There were some initiates and templars—though none above the rank of Knight-Corporal—there, apparently having taken shelter from the red lyrium-twisted monsters that had been their comrades. “But the keep is full of templars corrupted by red lyrium.  Your Knight-Lieutenants may already be dead.”

“Hold the hall while we search,” Cullen told Barris.  “The demon will likely rally its thralls to prevent us from challenging it directly.  We’ll need you and your brethren to old this position so we can mount a direct offensive immediately upon our return.  You are in command here for the time being, Knight-Corporal Barris.”

“Ser!” Barris said, responding to the tone of command in Cullen’s voice and saluting.  The templar wheeled away, striding to the center of the hall and calling out in a firm voice to his brother and sister templars.  As he addressed them, the Inquisition’s party drew in.

“Perhaps you should stay here in the hall, Lady Piper,” Cassandra said.  “It may be safer.”

“I should stay with you,” Piper said, brow furrowing.

“Forgive my bluntness, but we will be facing many more enemies, and you are untrained in combat,” Solas murmured to her.

“I know, but do you really think there will be  _ less  _ fighting here?”

Cassandra pursed her lips, because she had a point.

“My lady,” Cullen said slowly, “it is wiser for you to stay here; if there is to be fighting, the templars could use your ‘first aid’ knowledge.  But perhaps one of us should stay with you, to help and to guard you.”

Piper hesitated, but Cassandra leapt onto the suggestion.  “Yes, that is a good idea.  Cullen, you will stay with her.”

His eyes widened and his mouth opened to protest, but Cassandra continued before he said even a word: “Keep her safe and the hall in our possession while we retrieve the Knight-Lieutenants and the Order’s untainted lyrium supplies.”

She put a slight emphasis on the last, looking Cullen in the eye.  He did not miss the implications, and grimaced, but subsided.  Good; so much lyrium would sing strongly to him, it would be cruel to task him with carrying it from the stores back to the great hall.

Cullen’s cooperation secured, Cassandra turned her gaze to Piper.  The smaller woman frowned, but said: “Okay, fine.  That makes sense; I’ll stay here.”

“Good,” Cassandra said.  “Let us not waste time, Solas, Bull.”

“Wait,” Piper said.  “Solas, if you are agreeable, I’ll take Cassandra and Bull’s aid kits.  We may need them here, and if need be, you can use your Creation spells to heal your team.”

“A wise suggestion,” Solas said, inclining his head.  “I can manage with my magic.”

“There’s also… I’d like it if...” Piper hesitated, then sighed.  “Cole, will you help them?”

“Cole?” Cassandra started to ask, but there was suddenly a boy standing with them, beside Piper.  She shouted and lifted her sword, Cullen echoing her.  Bull went very still, and Solas took a step forward.

“Stop, stop!” Piper said, putting herself between them and the boy.  He peered up at them from under the wide brim of his hat.  “This is Cole; he helped me give Envy the boot.”

Iron Bull snorted, and the corner of her mouth quirked before she amended: “From my mind.  The boot from my mind.  The other boot was all me.”

“A spirit,” Solas said.

“A demon,” Cassandra snapped.

“No, he’s not a demon.  He’s Compassion, and all he wants to do is help,” Piper said, voice unmistakably protective.

“Spirits and demons are the same,” Cullen said forbiddingly.  Piper glared at him, at all of them.

“That’s a load of bullshit.  How the hell do you think spirit healers work, exactly?  By calling upon benevolent spirits in the Fade.  And would you like to say anything about spirits of Faith, Seeker Pentaghast?” Her glare was piercing.

“What?” Cassandra said, confused.

Piper narrowed her eyes, then widened them.  “They make you forget,” she said in surprise.  “Huh.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to demand the woman explain, but Piper waved a hand dismissively.  “Not important right now.  Just, there are already instances where you discern between spirits and demons.  Don’t be hypocrites.  Cole is a spirit of Compassion, not a demon, he’s here to help, you’re down a fighter if you leave Cullen here with me; logic dictates that you take Cole with you to help.”

“Fear, uncertainty.  The Lord Seeker was a demon, how can we trust this creature?  Demons deceive,” Cole suddenly spoke up.  Cassandra blinked.  “Envy wanted to  _ hurt _ people.  I want to help.”

Piper reached behind her and took one of the strange boy’s—spirit’s?—hands.  It blinked down at their joined hands as if surprised.  Piper met Cassandra’s gaze.  “I know you don’t trust Cole, and that’s fine.  I’m not asking you to.  I’m asking you to trust  _ me _ .  I know that Cole can help, wants to help.”

“I have frequently worked with spirits while walking the Fade,” Solas said.  “Cole’s assistance would be welcome.”

Cassandra scowled and shared a look with Cullen.  He, at least, looked concerned about the possibility of allowing a demon into their midst.

“Will they listen?  Am I just a figurehead?  An outsider?  Pretty face to smile at the people, puppet strings at my back,” the demon whispered in a rapid tumble of words.  Piper flinched, then squeezed his hand.

“Cole,” she admonished quietly.

“Sorry,” he whispered before falling silent.  Cassandra watched, and had the disconcerting thought that he had been speaking what Piper had been thinking.  The Herald’s sister stared down at her feet for a moment, brow furrowed, then looked up.

“I hope that all I have done for the Inquisition, what my sister and I have given, has earned me some small place of trust among you.  Please, believe what I say about Cole.”

“Whatever we decide, we should decide fast,” Bull said, glancing toward the opalescent barrier cutting them off from Envy’s hidey-hole.  Cassandra looked into Lady Piper’s eyes, seeing the beginnings of pain in them.  Did she truly think they held her in such low regard as a mere figurehead?

“Very well,” she found herself saying, and then sternly: “But do not think I will not be watching!”

“Of course,” said Piper, but there was nothing but relief in her face.  “Thank you, Cassandra.”

“Do not thank me yet,” she replied, oddly discomfited.  Then she coughed and cleared her throat.  “Here, you said you might have more use for these than we.”

Piper accepted the first aid kit she held out, then the one from Iron Bull as well.  When Solas held his out, Piper said: “You should keep yours, if you’re going to be acting as the group’s healer.”

Solas nodded once and returned the kit to his belt.

“Let us not waste any more time,” Cassandra said.

“Maker go with you,” Cullen said, his countenance still frowning.  Cassandra tilted her head to acknowledge his concern.

“And you,” she replied, and led the way toward one of the hall’s side doors.  She glanced back, catching a brief glimpse of Cullen striding toward Barris, and Piper sorting through their collected aid kits.

“Danger from every side.  I hope we don’t regret this,” the boy-demon said quietly beside her.  Cassandra glanced down with a forbidding glare.

“Don’t  _ make _ me regret this,” she said, and then turned her attention to the task at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want everyone to love Cole.


	16. Dead Wrong*

**Prompt: Dead Wrong***

**Word count: 1,267**

* * *

 

Varric had to give the Herald a hand; he’d thought that Hawke’s crew had hosted a bizarre mix, but this really went above and beyond.  Qunari, Tevene, Fereldan, Orlesian, Marcher.  It was clear that, if you were loyal to the Inquisition and its cause, you were welcome in their ranks.  And now she and her sister had brought the mages and templars into the fold.

It was a good thought, a noble one, but in practice it was a little rough.  The mages and the templars, while cowed enough to still ally with the Inquisition despite the presence of the other group, were like two alley cats circling each other: Only a few steps from a yowling fight.  They didn’t intermingle, and seemed to refuse to take their eyes off one another when in proximity.  There was no trust.

Varric knew this had to change, and he was fairly certain the Daughters knew.  Neither of them were stupid, nor blind.  But, well, there was no harm in making sure.

“You need to do something,” he told them one night in the Singing Maiden.  They looked up at him with, he had to admit, rather blank expressions.  They each had dark circles under their eyes and their pallor was decidedly ill.  The way Piper’s mabari were clinging to her, pressed in close to her legs, also spoke volumes.  “Andraste’s knicker weasels, you two look…”

“We’re aware,” croaked Piper.  Varric’s eyebrows rose.

“You might need a boost of morale as much as everyone else,” he said.

“If you have any ideas, please share,” Lyra mumbled, slumping wearily to the tabletop.

Varric shrugged.  “A camp-wide Wicked Grace tournament?  Whatever it is, it has to transcend all divisions.  Close the Breach?  I’d bet a big celebration would bring everyone together.”

“Uh,” Lyra said.  “Yeah, it sure would.”

“Why don’t you sound convinced, Sunshine? Where’s the trust between us?” he joked, but he was hardly unaware of the tension that had suddenly appeared in her shoulders.  She was probably nervous about attempting the Breach; that first day she had been awake had been harrowing and undoubtedly cast her thoughts down dark paths when she thought about it.

“Kind of not looking forward to trying to close that thing,” Lyra said, wry.  “It’s not a very comfortable thing, messing with the Veil.  The last time I tried to do anything with the Breach, I was unconscious for a day.”

“But this time you’ll have help,” Varric pointed out, and patted her shoulder.  “I’ve been out in the field with you, I’ve seen you close Rifts.  This’ll be cake.”

“If you say so,” she said, sounding not at all persuaded.  “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” Varric shrugged.  “Hey, Birdie, are you going to sing for us tonight?”

Piper looked up, startled at being brought into the conversation, her hands freezing in the middle of rumpling Poe’s ears.  “Uh.  What?”

“Yes, please sing, Pips,” Lyra said, seizing unto the topic with obvious relief.

“I’ll see if Maryden wants to do a duet,” Piper said, glancing toward the minstrel.  “I don’t want to steal her audience by soloing.  Let me up, Rey, Poe.”

The dogs whined, but shifted their weight away from her to let her get to her feet.  Maryden welcomed her with a smile, and after a quickly murmured discussion, they arranged themselves to begin.  Maryden perched on a tall stool with her lute and Piper stood at her shoulder with a flute.  It started out with a brief instrumental duet, and then Piper lowered the flute and they both sang as Maryden kept the melody on the lute.

_ “Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey. _

_ A shred of blue would be denied, alas he could not stay.” _

Piper took up the flute again, adding a low, mournful line to the song as Maryden continued:

_ “There was a stir within his blood, _

_ And the dreams lay thick upon him. _

_ A call did beat within his heart. _

_ One road was left before him.” _

Piper rejoined her to sing the chorus between verses, and as the song unfolded Varric realized it was the story of a Grey Warden leaving a spouse or lover, to go down into the Deep Roads on his Calling.  The words were a lament.

It was a little sad for lifting spirits, as Varric thought needed to be done, but he noticed that everyone listening seemed to sober, frowns and mistrustful looks fading to a solemn sort of contemplation.  Glares stopped being shot across the tavern, as most eyes began drifting down to tabletops and the insides of tankards.

Maryden and Piper both stopped playing to sing the final verse together, acapella, the sweetness of their voices hanging almost eerily in the stillness.

_ “Sweet Andraste hear our song, _

_ For his road will be ours, too. _

_ Before darkness claims our souls, _

_ Let us see that shred of blue.” _

Nobody was willing to break the silence that lingered after the last note faded.  Maryden and Piper returned their instruments to their cases, and quietly went to the bar, where Flissa just as quietly placed two mugs of mead in front of them.  Everyone else in the tavern turned back to their own drinks, or food, or games.  Very, very slowly, murmured conversations started up again.  The mood of the tavern was much subdued, but the undercurrent of tension and anger that had appeared in Haven with the arrival of the mages and templars had vanished.

Varric was impressed.  He wouldn’t have thought that tone of song would have helped the tensions building in the Inquisition, but here they were…

“Your sister’s good,” he told Lyra, who flashed him a grin.

“She’s the best,” she affirmed.  “She thinks she’s bad at people because she’s shy, but she’s actually really perceptive.”

“It seems so,” Varric murmured, looking around at the tavern’s patrons again.  They were beginning to relax again, coming up from the solemnity of the song, the purge of emotion making way for comfort and enjoyment.

“Hey,” Lyra said, drawing his attention back to her, but she was speaking to Piper, who had returned to the table with Maryden in tow.  “Was that the song you guys have been working on the last couple weeks?”

“Yes,” Maryden smiled.  “You may recognize the words as the lyrics you found in the Warden cache in the Fallow Mire.”

Lyra nodded, and Varric’s eyebrows rose.  “That was written by an actual Warden?”

“We think so,” Piper said.  “And, well, the words themselves kind of suggest it. ‘His path will be ours, too.’  I mean, you could take it more symbolically, but the obvious implication is that the writer would go on their own Calling.”

“It’s a beautiful song,” Lyra complimented.  “You guys did wonderfully with the melody.  Sad, but a lot of the best songs are.”

“What a waste of music, if it does not make one feel,” Maryden said.

“True enough,” Varric chuckled.  “Sad songs are supposed to make you sad, happy songs make you happy.”

“There’s an urban legend from home that claims there’s a particular note that makes people shit themselves,” Piper said suddenly.  Varric had just taken a slug of ale, and nearly choked himself trying not the spit it out.  Piper’s eyes glinted with mischief.  “It’s not true, though.”

“Maker’s blessed  _ balls _ ,” Varric managed, as Lyra and Maryden laughed at him.  “You harpy, you did that on purpose!”

“I was just doing what you said,” Piper said, widening her eyes in exaggerated innocence.  “Doesn’t your morale feel boosted, Varric?”

He couldn’t help but laugh.  “You are a menace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Shred of Blue" is one of my favorite Codex entries. I love the Wardens, so it was automatically of interest to me, but then the lyrics were so sweet and so sad... I was distressed that there wasn't any music to go with them, but as I do anytime the canon is missing something, I go looking in the fandom. A fan made a lovely arrangement and melody for it, which you can listen to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A45zj6vnK3w
> 
> This isn't the version Piper and Maryden sing, but it is a very pretty one!


	17. Introduction*

**Prompt: Introduction***

**Word count: 1,666**

* * *

 

“Commander?”  At the voice, Cullen paused and turned, straining into the darkness to see its owner.  It was vaguely familiar, mostly by its accent and cultured diction than anything, and he knew it to be the voice of the Tevene mage the Herald had brought back with her from Redcliffe.  The man himself stepped slowly from the deep shadows cast by the moon and the torches lighting Haven’s perimeter.

“Yes…?” Cullen cast about for the man’s name, but drew a blank.  The mage smirked slightly.

“Dorian Pavus,” he introduced himself with a little flourish.  “Scion of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.”

“Can I help you, Serah Pavus?” Cullen asked, a little annoyed with the mage’s ostentatious bearing.  Pavus straightened, and glanced back the direction he’d come.

“Ah.  Yes.  You see, she is quite adamant that she be allowed to stay outside and watch the stars, but sadly, she has no coat and no shoes.  I was hoping you might help me wrangle her.”

“Who?” Cullen asked, even as he followed the mage out toward the lake in front of Haven’s gate.

“Lady Piper,” Pavus replied, gesturing toward the dock over the lake, where a slight figure sat swaying.  Was she ill?  Cullen blinked, then walked a little faster.  As they drew nearer, he realized she was singing.  Rather drunkenly.

_ “Oh never, oh never, oh never again, _

_ If I live to a hundred or a hundred and ten. _

_ I fell to the ground and could not get up, _

_ After drinking a pint of the Johnny Jump Up.” _

Her voice was lovely even ale-soaked, but she stopped singing and turned when she felt the dock vibrate under their feet.  She grinned when she spotted him.

“Cullen!  Hi!  The stars are beautiful tonight,” she said cheerfully.  She patted the dock beside her in an exaggerated motion.  “Sit with me!”

He found himself obeying without really thinking about it, sitting heavily with the weight and inflexibility of his armor.  Pavus hovered behind them, saying nothing.  The lady sighed, tipping her head back and staring up at the sky.  Cullen took the opportunity to look her over, noting that Pavus had not been exaggerating: she wore no coat or cloak, and her feet were bare.

“Are you cold, my lady?” he asked, fighting the immediate impulse to take his cloak off and wrap her in it.  She hummed, looking at her feet.

“My boots were pinching my toes,” she said, wiggling them.  “It’s not that cold out, anyway.”

“I believe that is the maraas-lok talking,” Pavus murmured behind them.  Cullen twitched.

“You let her drink that…?”  He couldn’t find a fitting epithet.  Pavus snorted.

“Nobody  _ lets  _ me do anything,” the lady growled, leaning away from him and nearly unbalancing over the side of the dock.  Cullen caught her with one arm, pulling her back.  She flopped against his chest, utterly incapable of steadying herself.  She smacked her hand against his cuirass.  “No!  Lemme go!  I do what I want, Thor!”

“I… What?  It’s Cullen,” he corrected her.  “Easy, now!”

“I  _ know  _ that, it’s a  _ quote _ … Nevermind.  Ugh.”

“You  _ are _ cold, even if you can’t feel it,” he murmured, rubbing her arm gently.  He could feel the chill of her back through the fabric of his sleeve.  She sniffled.

“Mmnn.  But I wanted to see the stars.  They’re different here, you know.”

“Yes,” Cullen said, remembering how the whole sky had seemed to shift when he went from Kinloch to Kirkwall.

“We can stargaze again tomorrow night,” Pavus put in.  “I have a book about the southern constellations, we can bring it out with us.”

She perked up.  “Ooo, yes, please, Dorian.”

“Excellent,” the mage replied.  “But right now, it’s time for bed.  Some of us need our beauty sleep.”

“Aw, Dorian, yer always pretty,” she said, words starting to run together as she leaned harder into Cullen’s side.  He suspected she was getting to the drowsy stage of drunkenness now.

“Of course I am,” the mage sniffed.  “But I was referring to the Commander.”

“What?” Cullen said, alarmed at being drawn into it.  Piper scoffed.

“Pfft, no.  Cullen’s also always pretty,” she said, reaching up to pat his cheek.  Almost immediately, he felt his face heat, a sure sign he was blushing.  Pavus looked like a cat with a bowl of milk, and Cullen felt a twist of dread, but the mage only said, mildly:

“Yes, I suppose the scruff and the grimness have a certain cachet, but we must admit the dark circles under his eyes aren’t working for him.”

Cullen froze in place when Lady Piper suddenly gripped his shoulders and hauled herself up against him to peer into his face.  She was close enough he could smell the alcohol on her breath.  Her eyes, large and dilated, swept across his face before her expression became worried.

“Commander, you’re exhausted!  Come on, you should go to bed and get some sleep,” she released his shoulders to grab his hands and tug, trying to walk down the dock and tow him with.  They’d only gotten a couple steps when she pitched over sideways abruptly, one leg going out from under her.  “Ack!”

Cullen caught her easily, lifting her up in his arms without a thought.  Her bare feet dangled a fair distance from the ground.

“Whoop!” she said, eyes going wide.  She stared at him, their faces rather close.  “Woah.  You’re strong.  And tall.”

“You’re short.  And drunk,” he rejoined, then snapped his mouth shut, cleared his throat, and looked away from her face, feeling like his own was on fire.  Pavus made a sound that was definitely smothered laughter.

“So glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Cullen told him, acerbic.  His words reminded Lady Piper of the mage’s presence, and she gasped and turned her head.

“Dorian!  I think I stepped on a splinter!”  She tried to lift a foot and kneed Cullen perilously close to his crotch.  He grunted, but didn’t drop her.  She dropped the foot and stared at him in horror.

“Sorry!  I didn’t—Are you hurt?”

“No,” he said, very much hating the fact that Pavus was watching all of this with an expression of vast amusement.

“The pair of you are better than any court drama,” the mage declared, stepping closer.  “Now, Piper darling, let me see this splinter.”

He picked up her foot and turned it sole-up, calling a handful of fire to cast light on it.  Cullen stood obligingly still to facilitate this.  Pavus’s long fingers plucked something from the meat of her heel, then passed over the site with a shimmer of green Creation magic, healing the puncture from the splinter.  He released her foot then patted her hand where it rested on Cullen’s shoulder.  “There you are, my dear, good as new.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” she said sleepily, leaning her head against Cullen’s shoulder.  He started walking again, carrying her back to the cabin she shared with her…

“Where’s her sister?” he asked Pavus quietly.  Her head shifted, tucking closer to the crook of his neck and shoulder.

“Asleep,” he replied.  “ _ This _ little songbird bundled her off to bed before going and getting completely shitfaced.”

“ _ You’re  _ a shitface,” she mumbled, and pressed her cold nose against Cullen’s throat.  He jumped a little.

“Yes, very witty, well done,” Pavus said dryly.  “Somebody’s going to be miserable tomorrow.”

“You smell good,” she told Cullen, pressing closer to his neck.  Her lips brushed his skin, and goosebumps rose.

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered, and tried to walk faster.  Thankfully, she seemed to doze lightly after that, an easy weight in his arms.  He shifted her slightly so her cheek wasn’t lying against the ridge of his gorget.

“Getting heavy?” Pavus asked.

“No,” Cullen replied honestly.  He was used to carrying around the weight of templar plate armor, and she didn’t weigh much more than that.  Pavus hummed, and mercifully fell silent.  It didn’t take long to reach the cabin Lady Piper shared with the Herald.  Pavus opened the door and Cullen carefully maneuvered them inside.  Rey and Poe lifted their heads from where they lay in front of the banked hearth, but settled back down when they saw who was entering their territory.  The Herald, a dim shape curled on one of the beds, did not stir at the small noises Cullen couldn’t avoid making.

He slid Lady Piper from his shoulder, trying not to jostle her too much as he laid her down on the empty bed, but she woke anyway at the shift in orientation.  She blinked sleepily up at him, then smiled.  One hand rose to try to pet the fur of his cloak; he caught it and laid it across her stomach.

“Go back to sleep,” he told her softly, and she gave a little mumble of acquiescence, already on the way out.

“G’ni Culln.”

“Goodnight, my lady.”

He slipped out of the cabin, discovering that Pavus had waited outside.  For a moment, as the mage looked between him and the closed door, Cullen thought he might make some sort of undesired comment, but the man merely turned and said: “I suppose I should try to find her shoes for her; I imagine she will want them tomorrow, when the maraas-lok has worn off.”

Off-balance, Cullen watched him go for a moment, then called after him as quietly as he could.  “Serah Pavus!”

The mage turned, the buckles of his absurd clothing glinting in the firelight from the lamp beside the Herald’s cabin’s door.  His expression seemed… guarded.  Cullen searched for the best words to say what he wanted to say.  “Thank you.  For watching out for her.”

Pavus stared at him, then smiled slightly.  It was the most sincere expression he’d seen on the man’s face.  “I always watch out for my friends.”

Cullen nodded dumbly, uncertain of what more to say.  Pavus turned back around and headed off, calling over his shoulder: “Goodnight, Commander.  And do try to get some sleep; I wasn’t kidding about the circles under your eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a hard time conceptualizing the scale of Thedas, but I'm gonna headcanon that there's enough of a different in latitude between Kirkwall and Kinloch that the stars are shifted anyway.
> 
> The brief bit of song is "Johnny Jump Up" an Irish drinking song. I particularly like the version by Gaelic Storm. Have a listen- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u56R_qHTLVI
> 
> I love Dorian. He's my bff every time I play.


	18. Nature's Fury

**Prompt: Nature’s Fury**

**Word count: 1,655**

* * *

 

“Hey, ass-butt!”

Lyra’s heart simultaneously leaped and dropped to her feet.  She didn’t dare look away from the looming monstrous form of Corypheus before her, but she knew very well to whom that voice belonged.

A rock winged Corypheus in the temple.  Lyra knew that arm, too.  Unfortunately, the direct hit did little to phase the darkspawn magister.  He simply turned his head, eyes glowing a baleful red.  Lyra took the chance to glance that direction, too, and sure enough, Piper was standing on the little rise above the trebuchet.  Her feet were set apart and her face was sharp with fury and determination.

“Get the fuck away from my sister, you decrepit pile of bone and bullshit,” she snarled, and Lyra wanted to laugh for a brief moment.  When she felt the bubble of amusement turn into hysteria halfway up her throat, she choked it off, however.

“Piper, get away from here!  Run!” she shouted at her sister.  Why was she here?  She’d told Piper to stay in the Chantry!  She’d _ordered_ her!  But she wasn’t the Herald of Andraste to Piper, was she?  To Piper, she was still Lyra, her sister, and of course Piper wouldn’t just leave her.

“You dare?” Corypheus rumbled in his growling voice, glaring at Piper.  He’d kill her!  Piper had no defenses against the creature; he’d crush her with as little effort as crushing an ant beneath his heel.  Lyra’s hands scrabbled for purchase, trying to find some grip so that she could pull herself upright.  Her Marked hand was throbbing, blood oozing from the Anchor and splattering against the churned earth around the trebuchet.  She needed to distract him.

“You have no power here, servant of Dumat!” she shouted.  She pushed her Marked hand out at him, ignoring the ripping pain that washed through her at the motion.  Green light flared, and Corypheus wheeled on her, fury etched across his misshapen features.  Her other hand groped behind her.  She met Piper’s gaze, and her sister nodded, reading the look in her eyes.  Lyra’s hand closed on the trebuchet’s release lever.  “You are nameless!  Faceless!  Formless!  Go back to the Void from whence you came!”

She put all her weight behind pulling the lever, uncertain she’d be able to move it otherwise.  The trebuchet lurched with the shifting weight of its payload, and Lyra watched from her prone position as the large boulder sailed almost elegantly through the air, until it was lost to sight in the darkness of the night.  She felt the impact, however, as a tremor in the ground on which she lay.

She heard the dragon shriek, and Corypheus snarl in thwarted rage, and then her sister was kneeling beside her, eyes wide with fear.

“Come on!” Piper shouted, yanking at her arm.  “The mountain’s coming down!  Let’s go!”

Lyra stumbled upright, then shoved Piper in the direction of the open mineshaft she knew had opened with the quake the avalanche caused.  She could hear the rumble of the wall of snow approaching, and they reached the open pit just as it hit them.  Piper screamed Lyra’s name as they fell, but Lyra wasn’t sure what happened next because she clipped a wooden beam and everything went black.

* * *

Lyra came-to slowly, pain and confusion muddying her thoughts.  Her eyelashes fluttered as she tried to peel her eyes open, and all her attempts to sit up achieved were some flopping hands and twitching toes.  She groaned, darts of pain radiating from her left hand.

“Lyra?” rasped her sister’s voice from nearby.

“Piper?  What…” she trailed off as she remembered smacking her head.  They’d fallen down the mineshaft.  “Are you okay?”

“Not… exactly?” Piper’s voice was tremulous.  “My leg’s broken, and I think we both have concussions.”

Lyra groaned again as she pushed herself upright.  “Did you lose consciousness, too?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Lyra tried to think.  “How bad is your leg?”

“Um,” Piper said.  “Not good.”

“Hang on a second.  Let me make sure I’m not going to keel over when I stand up, then I’ll check it out.”  Her head spun when she got herself on her feet, and she found her legs more unstable than she’d hoped, but she did manage to pick her way to Piper without major mishap.

She tried to keep her thoughts off her face as she looked over her sister’s leg, but her concussion made it difficult to remember to filter herself and she swore when she saw the unnatural bend in the shin.  They must have been lying at the bottom of the mineshaft for a while, because the limb was also heavily bruised and swollen.

“That’s what I said,” Piper joked weakly.

“This complicates things,” Lyra admitted.  “We need to head out, meet up with the Inquisition down the mountain.  But…”

“Get me a crutch and I’ll manage,” Piper said.  Lyra hesitated.

“I don’t…”

“What happens if we stay here?”

“Well… I don’t know.  The Inquisition might move on, leaving us here.  We don’t have any of the equipment or clothes necessary to survive up here for long.  If we leave now, we’ll be able to catch up to them, but if we wait and they move… We might end up freezing to death up here.”

“Right, so then.  Find me a crutch.” Lyra watched, worriedly, as Piper dragged herself toward the side of the tunnel.  She leaned against the wall, breathing hard, and glared.  “Go.  Come on.  We don’t have a choice.”

Lyra took a breath, and went to look for a piece of debris that could work as a crutch.  She found a spar of wood that was only a little bit too long, and broke off a few inches from the ragged end.  Returning to Piper, she helped her sister get to her feet—or foot, rather.  She tried to keep the broken leg off the ground, and swayed, sweat gleaming on her ashen face, pupils wide and lips thin with the pain.  Lyra bit her own lip, and went to Piper’s other side to prop her up.

“Ready?”

Piper just grunted.  They began slowly inching their way down the tunnel.  Lyra knew the movement was hurting her sister because of the tight grip Piper had on her shoulder, fingers digging in, and the harsh sound of her breathing.

“So,” Piper gritted out from between clenched teeth, after a little while.  “Borrowing from Galadriel, are you?”

Lyra blinked, uncomprehending for a moment, before she remembered what she’d said to Corypheus before.  She snorted softly.  “Ha.  As if you have any room to judge, Little-Miss-Quoted-Castiel.”

“True,” Piper said on a gasp.  “We’re a pair of nerds.  Both quotes were pretty fitting, though.”

She was probably using the conversation to try to distract herself from the pain.  Lyra obliged.  “Oh yeah.  Man, sometimes I have to really hold myself back from quoting shit left and right.”

“How many times do you think I’ve had to keep Monty Python locked behind my teeth?” Piper commisserated.  “Nobody expects the Thedas Inquisition!”

“So many,” agreed Lyra.  “So many times.  And Game of Thrones.”

“Rains of Castamere.”

“Good song.  Pretty,” agreed Lyra.  “Kinda scared to sing it here, though…”

Piper choked out a laugh, then moaned as a bit of uneven ground made her shift her weight and move her leg.  Lyra kept an eye on the path in front of them, remembering a Rift from the game.  She’d have to stop and leave Piper behind briefly as she dealt with it.

“Wish we had your bag,” she remarked, trying to keep up the distraction.  “We’re going to exit this cave into a blizzard; it’s gonna be bitter.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Piper gasped, expression taut with pain.  “When you said we might freeze to death, you meant it faster than I thought.”

“Beats getting munched on by a Blighted dragon.”

“What about neither?”

“Well, okay, I guess.  If you want to be _greedy_.”  The bickering was actually soothing, a familiar push and pull of snark.  The small comfort evaporated as a muffled crackling echoed down the tunnel.  Lyra eased them to a stop, brow furrowing and ears straining.  “Hold on.”

A crackle and a fizz, familiar now.  Her left hand, unbidden, begins to tingle.  “Fuck.  There’s a Rift ahead.  I’m going to leave you here and take care of it.”

“Are you—?”

“I’ll be fine, you stay here.  I mean it.”

“Not too much of a choice,” Piper said.  “I’ve lost feeling in my leg.”

They met gazes, Piper’s filled with worry.  It wasn’t a great sign, but there was a chance it was just inflammation messing with the nerves, and not something more malicious like nerve damage.  But the longer the broken bone went untreated, the more likely nerve damage was.

“I won’t be long,” Lyra said.

“Be careful.”

Lyra nodded, and reluctantly went to take care of the Rift.  Reassuringly, the event unfolded exactly as it did in the game.  Her Mark revealed a new talent, and the demons around the Rift were eliminated with minimal fuss.  It did, however, take it out of Lyra, and she was already aching with fatigue as she went back to collect Piper.

It wasn’t far until they reached the end of the caves and exited into the cold fury of a blizzard.  The wind cut through them like knives, and they pressed closer together, shivering and staggering.  It was dark, and they couldn’t see very far ahead of them.  The snow was deep, and Lyra ended up shifting them so that she could break through the drifts so that Piper’s leg wasn’t getting jolted and wrenched by the stuff.  She hoped it wouldn’t take them long to find the Inquisition survivors, because she could feel herself weakening with every second, and Piper was slipping further and further into a haze of pain, more and more of her weight dragging on Lyra.

 _Please,_ she thought, _please let them find us.  Let them be close..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hands up, who here hasn't thought of what terrific insult they'd lob at Corypheus if given the chance?


	19. A Place to Belong

**Prompt: A Place to Belong**

**Word count: 2,063**

* * *

 

The air was cold enough that it stung Cullen’s lungs as he inhaled deeply, flexing his hands and listening to the creak of his gloves as he oversaw the last stragglers limping into the camp.  It had grown dark and cold enough that they could no longer safely travel, and had to set up camp and hope they were far enough from Haven that any potential surviving enemies could not happen upon them in the night.  The Red Templars, with their unnatural strength and the red lyrium sustaining their bodies, could possibly have survived burial under the crushing snow.  He didn’t think a mage, even with powerful barrier and fire spells, could have withstood the size and force of the avalanche.

Two small women without magic or weapons facing down an Archdemon and this ‘Elder One’ before standing at the center of the slide?  They stood little chance.

A welter of emotions rose in Cullen, but he choked them down with a near violent force.  What would they do without the Herald?  What would they do if the Daughters of Andraste were dead?  The Inquisition would lose much of the support they had garnered.  They would no longer be able to close the Rifts that remain.  Their purpose would be unattainable, and they would crumble.

He tried not to think of the women themselves.  The Herald’s—Lyra’s—wry humor at the War Table, her firm and unyielding sense of right and justice.  Lady Piper’s lovely voice, the way she’d marched up to the advisors and demanded they give her some task, some job to help the Inquisition.  The… the way she felt in his arms, her breath against his throat as he carried her drunken form back to her cabin...

Finn pressed against his leg, and his hand automatically dropped to scritch the crown of his head, between his ears.  Rey and Poe had joined their brother at Cullen’s side earlier, the only warning he’d had that Lady Piper had followed her sister out of the Chantry and to certain death.  She hadn’t warned him, hadn’t said a single thing to anyone.  He understood why—any one of them would have stopped her.  The Herald’s death was perhaps,  _ perhaps,  _ necessary for them to escape without the Elder One and its army pursuing them for the Mark she bore, but Lady Piper’s?  They should have watched her.  They knew that she’d followed her sister across the Fade, of course she wouldn’t hesitate to stand at Lyra’s side against this threat.

They should have— _ He  _ should have—No.  He  couldn’t do this to himself.  He couldn’t wrap himself in his guilt and anger and grief that he couldn’t stop their deaths.  It would finish what Kinloch and Kirkwall had started; it would destroy him.  And the Inquisition would not even make it down from the mountain if it lost its Commander, too.

“Cullen,” Cassandra’s crisp, firm voice broke him from his thoughts.  The Seeker came up to his side, gazing as he was out into the swirling snow.  They stood silently a moment, before Cassandra quietly said: “The blizzard will last the night.  We will need to organize, see how many tents were salvaged, how much food.”

“Yes,” Cullen replied, his voice heavy.  He breathed, forced himself to think.  His chest ached, but they needed to get to work.  The living needed to be kept that way.  “We need to—”

“Don’t give up,” a voice whispered, and Cullen jolted.  The boy, spirit, what was his name, the one from Therinfal, was sudden beside them, crouching next to Rey.  “Can’t give up.  They must be out here, please.  So tired, so tired.”

“Cole?” Cullen said, confused.  “What are…”

The spirit tipped his head up, silencing Cullen with the direct, piercing stare of his pale eyes.  “It used to hurt, but now it’s just numb.  That’s a bad sign.”

“Are you talking about one of the wounded?” Cassandra asked.  Cullen mulled over the words the boy had said.

“Did someone fall behind, Cole?” he asked.  “Did we lose someone behind us?”

“They’re lost,” Cole said.  “And tired.  Hurt.”

Cullen and Cassandra shared a look.  She seemed as concerned as he, but there was an edge of distrust to her expression.  He returned his gaze to Cole, thoughtful.  Lady Piper had begged them to trust her, at Therinfal.  If they couldn’t trust Cole, then they should trust her.  She was gone, now, but...

Cullen took a breath.  “Alright, Cole.  Show me where.”

“Yes.  You can help.”  The spirit-boy stood, and ran out into the snow.

“Maker’s mercy!” Cassandra exclaimed, caught as flat-footed as Cullen.  They hurried to catch up, the three juvenile mabari plunging after them.  Cole led them back up the mountain, but widdershins from the path they and the other refugees had taken.  The further they went, the deeper the snow became, until both Cassandra and Cullen were laboring to push through the drifts.  The mabari had to be sent back to camp, Cullen ordering them in a much firmer voice than usually necessary, as they whined and looked distressed at leaving him.

At last, breath burning and sweat dampening his arming doublet under his cuirass, Cullen spotted Cole standing expectantly in front of them.  There was a dark mass at his feet, partially covered in snow.

“Is that them?” Cullen called, trying to put on one last burst of speed.

“Hurry,” was all Cole said in reply.  They drew abreast of him, and Cullen felt like a great fist had struck him in the gut.  Beside him, Cassandra let out a cry.

“The Daughters!  Thank the Maker!”

“You’ll need healers,” Cole said, and vanished.  Cullen fell to his knees beside the tangled forms of Lady Piper and the Herald.  They were pale and still, and he felt an almost overwhelming wash of panic tear through him before he saw the faint clouds of breath at their lips.

“They’re alive,” he gasped in relief and awe.  “They’ve returned to us.”

“They’re both injured,” Cassandra said, running a keen eye over them.  Cullen looked, too, and saw the blood and bruises, and the bend in Lady Piper’s leg.  They also were too pale, lips bloodless.  He began pulling at the fabric of his surcoat.

“They’re too cold, we need to get them warmed up, quickly.”  Cassandra helped him disentangle the sisters and wrap each of them in the red-and-gold cloth of the surcoat and wrap-vest he wore over his armor.  It wasn’t much, but it was all they until they got them back to camp.  They folded the women’s arms in, tucking hands under arms and wrapping the fabric around head and torso tightly so that the sharp wind couldn’t winnow its way to chilled, bare skin.  He hoped it would be enough.

“I will take Lady Piper,” he said.  With her broken leg, the gentlest way to carry her would be in his arms; Cassandra was taller than either sister, but not much larger otherwise, and wouldn’t be able to sustain such a carry for long.  The Seeker nodded understanding, and hauled the Herald into a shoulder-carry.  Cullen folded Lady Piper against his chest as carefully as possible.  She settled into his arms like it was where she belonged, and Cullen felt something in his chest twist at how small and cold she felt, so different from the last time he’d held her like this.

Somehow they found it within themselves to retrace their steps and return to the camp faster than they had left it, plunging almost recklessly through the snow down the mountain.  As they drew closer, they heard the uproar within the camp, the dogs barking, and saw the dozens of torches flickering as their bearers moved between tents.  Cole, Vivienne, Solas, Dorian, and a half dozen of the best healers among the mages waited for them at the edge of camp.

“This way,” Solas said.  “We’ve cleared this tent for use.”

Without pausing, Cullen ducked into the tent.  There were two cots inside, and no less than five braziers, filling the space with intense warmth.  Sweat prickled almost immediately on Cullen’s brow.

He and Cassandra laid their burdens out on the cots, and stepped back to allow the mage healers to work.  Vivienne and Solas bent immediately over the Herald, flanked by Fiona and some other mages whose names Cullen didn’t know.  Dorian and the others surrounded Lady Piper.

They cut the clothes and leather armor from the women’s bodies, revealing waxen skin and scattered bruises.  Dorian and two other mages inspected Lady Piper’s twisted leg, faces grim.  “The cold brought the swelling down,” the Tevinter mage said, “which is fortunate because otherwise the skin would have split.  As it is, the swelling is bad; we need to bring it down before we can set the bone.”

“A mild concussion, but nothing more serious,” Vivienne said, her hands glowed as she cradled the Herald’s head.  “The biggest issue will be getting her core temperature back up.”

“Two bruised ribs and one broken,” reported one of the mages working on Lady Piper.  Another chimed in:

“She also has a mild concussion.”

“Make room, darling,” Vivienne said, less a request than an order.  She moved from the Herald’s side to Lady Piper’s, and cupped her hands around her head as she had for the Herald.  The other mages focused on her ribs and leg, and on coaxing both women’s bodies to warm.

Cullen watched, kneeling forgotten in the corner, Cassandra quietly murmuring the Chant beside him.  He couldn’t pull his attention away from the tableau, watching Lady Piper’s slack, too-white face between the hovering healers.  Color was slowly starting to return to her skin, and her sister’s, their lips no longer tinged blue.

Josephine and Leliana slipped into the tent, the former’s eyes going wide and alarmed at the sight of the Daughters’ insensate forms surrounded by healing mages.  Leliana, as composed as ever, simply surveyed the scene, then made her way over to him and Cassandra, Josephine following hesitantly.

“How are they?” Leliana asked brusquely.

“The Herald’s worst injury appears to be a concussion, which has been healed,” Cassandra said.  “Her sister is worse off with some broken bones, and they both are half frozen to death.”

At that moment, Dorian and his assistants yanked Lady Piper’s leg straight, the pain of it rousing her right up from her deep stupor.  Her eyes opened, wide but unseeing, pupils mere pinpricks, and she screamed.  It was a horrible, rasping sound that dragged along Cullen’s spine like claws.  He rocked forward, but caught himself—he shouldn’t get in the way—and shuddered.  Mercifully, she passed out again from the pain, going limp and quiet on the cot.

Josephine made a small, horrified noise.

“She’s alright, Josie,” Leliana soothed the ambassador.  “Just fainted.”

“We’ll have to camp here for some time, to allow the healers time to ensure they are completely healed,” Cassandra said.

“Do we have the resources to do so?” Cullen asked, standing carefully.  His chest still ached a little bit from sucking in so much freezing air during their race back to camp, but it was getting better with every breath he took of the tent’s heated air.

“Not exactly,” Josephine sighed.  “We can bolster our food reserves with hunting; there is some small game in the forests…”

“But?”

“It won’t be enough for an extended stay.  We must hope they recover quickly.”

“What is quickly?”  Cassandra wanted to know.  Josephine looked up, calculations running behind her eyes.

“We already don’t have food enough for everyone, but supplemented with game, we could stretch it to two days.”

“Which leaves nothing for the journey down the mountain,” Cullen observed, frowning.  The others frowned or nodded, according to their nature.

“Their injuries are not extensive,” Josephine offered.  “Perhaps they will be ready to move in a day?”

“Only if they do not develop pneumonia,” Leliana said.  “It could be dangerous to move them if they do.”

“If they come down with pneumonia, do we have the herbs to treat them?  Our stock of potions went up in flames with Adan’s hut,” Cullen said, a worm of worry wriggling into his gut.

“We must hope they do not,” Leliana said, reply enough.  The mood, previously light with relief and awe that the two women had survived Haven, darkened as the advisors contemplated how to keep them, and the rest of the Inquisition, alive.


	20. Gunshot*

**Prompt: Gunshot***

**Word count: 1,066**

* * *

 

“You are awake, that is good,” an accented voice said, as Piper’s eyes fluttered open.  She blinked blearily a couple times, still trying to lift her thoughts from the mire of sleep, and turned her head.  One of the Mothers of this world’s major religion sat beside her, smiling gently.

Before Piper could open her mouth to ask something stupid like ‘where am I’, there was a frantic  _ woof _ and Rey’s snout was in her face.  It was almost immediately shoved aside by Poe’s, then Finn’s, and then all three dogs jockeyed for position.

“Easy,” she croaked at them.

“They have been very worried for you,” said the Revered Mother.  “As have your sister and many others.”

“Lyra?” Piper questioned, pausing in her attempt to rise.  The Mother smiled, and gestured elegantly, directing Piper’s attention to her left.  She finished pushing herself upright, and looked.

Her sister looked fine, if disgruntled.  She wore a heavy coat two sizes too big, and a ferocious scowl.  Josephine, Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen all looked similarly annoyed and angry.  As Piper watched, Lyra said something with sharp, violent hand motions, making making Cassandra throw her hands up and turn away.  Cullen responded with an angry tilt to his mouth, the scar on his lip turning it into a sneer.  Josephine’s composure seemed to have deserted her, and she made a slashing motion with the tattered quill in her hand.

“Something’s wrong,” Piper said, her voice hoarse.

“We may have survived this ‘Elder One’s’ attack,” said the Mother, “but we are not safe from harm.  Nobody knows where we might go, and we hardly have the supplies to make a leisurely decision.”

Piper bit her lip, eyes darting from advisor to advisor as the group broke apart.  They each seemed weary and frustrated.  Lyra, one hand buried in her hair as if she wanted to tear it out, glanced over toward her and her face immediately brightened at seeing her looking back.  She strode over quickly, and grabbed Piper’s hands.

“Piper!  I’m so glad to see you up!”

“You too,” Piper replied, squeezing her fingers.  Last she remembered, they were stumbling through a blizzard, optimism bleeding out of them as fast as their body heat.  They’d both rather thought they’d die there, on the mountainside.

“The mages healed us, so we should be able to get back to it,” Lyra said.  “But nobody can agree on what we should do.”  The scowl came back.  “They keep focusing on what we’ve lost, and what we don’t have, that they won’t listen to me when I tell them it’ll work out.”

“They are afraid to hope,” the Mother said.  “We have watched you stand, and fall.  We believed you both dead, but then we saw you return.  It is both reassuring and frightening to see what many believe is a miracle.  It raises the question of whether our trials are ordained.  Whether the Maker’s hand is behind all that happens here.”

“We can’t let that freeze us in indecision,” Lyra protested.  “Mother Giselle, can’t you do something?”

“I?  I do not believe my voice to be stronger than yours.”  

“Can’t you try?”

Mother Giselle was thoughtfully silent, then said: “What they need is a reminder.”

Piper watched Lyra watch the Chantry woman, recognizing the sharp way her eyes tracked her.  Lyra was plotting something.  Mother Giselle gazed out at the weary and downtrodden Inquisition, then stood.  Behind her back, Lyra glanced toward Piper and subtly winked.  Piper lifted her eyebrows curiously, then turned all her attention toward Mother Giselle as she began to sing.

_ “Shadows fall and hope has fled. _

_ Steel your heart, the dawn will come. _

_ The night is long and the path is dark; _

_ Look to the sky for one day soon, _

_ The dawn will come.” _

She moved out of the tent and into the little campfire area, voice rising.  Piper watched as heads lifted and people listened.  When Mother Giselle began the second verse, Leliana began singing along.  Her voice was beautiful, a pure soprano.

_ “The shepherd’s lost and his home is far; _

_ Keep to the stars, the dawn will come. _

_ The night is long and the path is dark; _

_ Look to the sky for one day soon, _

_ The dawn will come.” _

As they continued singing, more and more lifted the voices to join in.  Lyra stood and moved to the tent’s open side, a small smile playing on her lips.  Soldiers and civilians and mages crept closer, singing along with Mother Giselle.  The music carried pure and crisp on the cold air.  Piper felt tears sting her eyes.

_ “Bare your blade and raise it high, _

_ Stand your ground, the dawn will come. _

_ The night is long and the path is dark; _

_ Look to the sky for one day soon, _

_ The dawn will come.” _

Everything seemed lightened, as the last note faded.  Lyra half turned to smirk at Piper, lifting a finger gun and mouthing the  _ pew  _ sound of a comic gunshot, entirely too smug with how well she’d manipulated the situation.  Piper recognized this moment as one of Lyra’s favorites from the game, her sister having talked about it frequently.  She’d even gotten Piper to learn the song and transcribe it into something they could play on the flute and harp.  She would have tried to make sure the event happened for love of the song alone, nevermind how important it was to bonding the Inquisition’s survivors together and raising morale.

Piper rolled her eyes briefly at her sister, and then Solas appeared from the now-milling crowd and murmured something to her that had Lyra sobering and nodding.  He strode away almost as quickly as he had appeared.  Lyra glanced back toward Piper and gave a thumbs-up before following.  From what Piper was recalling from Lyra’s briefing as to the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition, the elven apostate was informing her of the whereabouts of the Inquisition’s next home: Skyhold.

Mother Giselle moved back into the tent, and Piper smiled at her.  “That was a beautiful song.”

She smiled back.  “It is an old song.  It is said Blessed Andraste sang it herself, to her army on the eve of battle.”

“Well, it definitely lifted spirits here.”

“Then my intent has succeeded,” she said placidly, taking her seat beside Piper again.

“Thank you, Mother Giselle.”

“Of course, my child.  Now, rest; your body will be weary from the healing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is obviously from the game.


	21. Shattered

**Prompt: Shattered**

**Word count: 1,341**

* * *

 

The newly minted Inquisitor stared at the parchment in her hands as if it were written in an entirely different language, her eyes tracing the lines but no understanding blooming in her eyes.  Leliana waited.

“How many?” the Inquisitor whispered finally.

“Forty-three,” Leliana replied promptly.  “Though there are still some severely injure who may not make it.”

The Inquisitor closed her eyes, swallowing convulsively.  “This wasn’t supposed to happen…”

Leliana cleared her throat softly.  “I regret the mistakes and failings I made that allowed this to happen, Inquisitor.  I will—”

“That  _ you  _ made?” she interrupted, brow furrowed in confusion.  “What?  No, Leliana, what happened wasn’t your fault.”

“I pulled my scouts back—”

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there.  Say you didn’t pull them back, what would that have afforded us?”

“We could have had more warning, and evacuated Haven…”

“And Corypheus would have followed us—followed  _ me _ —until we ran against the blizzard and he attacked us from the rear.  He wanted the Anchor, and would have followed me to the end of the earth to get it.  We were going to have a Haven, even if if it didn’t happen  _ at  _ Haven.”

“If we had more warning, we could have been prepared for a battle, and our losses would have been lighter,” Leliana disputed.

“We didn’t lose people because the battle went against us.  We were winning until the dragon showed up.  And you couldn’t have seen the dragon coming, Leliana.”

“You said it yourself,” she said quietly, “this wasn’t supposed to happen.  It shouldn’t have.”

“If you’re going to blame yourself,” the Inquisitor replied after a moment, “you also need to blame me, and Commander Cullen, and Josephine and Cassandra.  You also need to blame our soldiers and our scouts.  None of us were on top of our game that night, and each one of them has also apologized for their perceived responsibility.  We’re the leaders of the Inquisition, though I might claim the title.  We share responsibility for our failures as well as our victories.”

Leliana watched the sad, earnest expression on her face, once again struck by how similar the Inquisitor was to the Hero of Ferelden.  She had to be honest with herself and admit that the echoes of her greatest friend she saw in Lyra Hjaltason touched something within her that had withered.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” she replied at length, voice softening and some of the tension across her brow easing.  The Inquisitor peered into her face, catching her eyes—Leliana met the gaze forthrightly—and nodded after a moment.

“Who writes the letters to the families?” she asked, lifting the casualty list a little.  Leliana blinked.

“It depends.  I write those for my agents, Cullen for his soldiers.  Josephine was going to cover the ones for the noncombatants who died at Haven…”

“I’d like to include a personal letter for each,” the Inquisitor said.  “I realize that it will take me a while to write forty-three, but if it wouldn’t be too terrible to delay sending them out, I really would like to include my own acknowledgement.”

“Of course,” Leliana said, mildly surprised at the sentiment.  “I will let the others know.”

“Good.  Can I get a copy of this list, and can someone annotate it with what job each individual had, and their hometown?”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

“You’re sure it’s okay to wait to send these notifications out until I add my messages?”

“Yes, Inquisitor; we don’t have enough ravens to send them all out at once, so it will take some time in any case.  I believe you’ll have enough time to write your condolences between flights.”

“Right,” she sighed, and pushed a hand through her hair.  “Good.”

Leliana hesitated briefly.  “Inquisitor… I should warn you that Maryden Halewell’s name is on that list.”

The blood seemed to drain from her face, and her eyes darted down to the list with a whispered ‘no’.  There were too many names, however, and she couldn’t find that specific one that quickly.  After her gaze had flicked over the list a couple times, she cradled her forehead in one hand and closed her eyes.  A wavering sigh escaped her lips.  “I’ll have to tell Piper… Thank you for letting me know, Leliana.”

“Is that wise?”  When the Inquisitor blinked uncomprehendingly at her, she expanded: “Your sister is still recovering from her injuries.  Would it be wise to inform her of her friend’s death while she’s still weakened?”

The Inquisitor gave a humorless laugh.  “I won’t lie, the news will hurt her, but she isn’t made of glass.   And keeping that sort of thing from people always turns out worse in the end.  She’ll be angry at me for hiding it from her, and feel guilty for all the time that she wasn’t mourning her friend.”

“You know her best,” Leliana demurred.

“We’ve always been close,” she said absently, fiddling with the parchment.  Then she sighed and laid it back down on Leliana’s desk.  “I should probably let you get back to your work, and get back to what I was doing, too.  Thank you, Leliana.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.  I will send you the annotated list in the evening.”

She nodded her thanks and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Leliana alone in the raven cote.  Her voice echoed in the tall tower as she greeted the Tevinter Altus, Dorian, on the floor below.  She struck up a friendly conversation with him, thanking him for what he’d done for her sister after Haven.  Leliana tuned out their words; it was not a conversation she needed to listen in on.  Instead, she took a seat at her desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.  A quill, inkwell, and a neat pile of the five ledgers into which every Inquisition agent was recorded joined the parchment on the desktop.

Letters of condolence were still something she was not used to; before the Inquisition, she had not been responsible for such things.  She had been a solo agent to the Divine’s will.  Since founding the Inquisition, she had found herself writing more and more of them.  A few scouts lost in the Hinterlands, or on the Storm Coast.  Spies lost to intrigue or discovery.  It was a thankless task, writing the words that every family, every loved one, dreaded to hear.  It could shatter the unprepared, the uncertain.  The idea that each name on that list died for  _ you _ , because of your orders, whether they were good or bad, could break wills.  Could cause leaders to freeze up, the worry that their decisions could mean more names on that list making them unable to make a decision.

Leliana didn’t think the Inquisitor was so weak as that.  She had doubted her, at first, when Lyra was their Herald and the title reluctantly bestowed.  This soft girl who could not fight, a stranger to violence, upon whom they must depend to close the Breach.  Leliana  _ had _ thought her weak and resented that she required her team to act as bodyguards in the field.  She couldn’t defend herself.  How could Blessed Andraste have chosen  _ her _ ?  Why her and not someone more suited for the job?  Leliana had taken Lyra’s martial failings as evidence that she was  _ not _ , in fact, the Herald.

But then the reports started coming in.  And the ‘weak girl’ began to show her true colors.  Perhaps she was not a strong arm, but she was a steadfast heart and a tactical mind.  She inspired people, lead them with wisdom and compassion.  And Leliana began to remember a small noblewoman who had risen from the ashes of her murdered house to unite Ferelden against the Blight.  Elissa had only been eighteen, and freshly Joined, when she’d assumed the title of Warden Commander.  She had not fully understood what it was to be a Warden when she’d led an alliance of armies against the Archdemon.

Perhaps they didn’t need a seasoned warrior as their Herald or Inquisitor.  Perhaps they needed one exactly like the one they had.


	22. Opportunities

**Prompt: Opportunities**

**Word count: 1,697**

* * *

 

Piper wished they wouldn’t look at her so pityingly.  It made her feel worse about what had happened, made it harder for her to get beyond it.  They treated her as if she were fragile, and so she  _ felt  _ fragile.  It made her attempts at a ‘stiff upper lip’ brittle and crumbling, their pity undermining her scraped-together strength.

She’d known that the break in her leg had been bad when it had happened, and the long trek down the mountain in the blizzard had given her some time to understand how bad, and to accept that coming back from the injury wouldn’t be easy.  She’d held a kernel of hope that magic would somehow be able to heal what even the most advanced medical science of Earth could not… But she hadn’t been terribly surprised when it couldn’t.  Her leg had been too badly broken, and knocked about and left untreated; there had been nerve and muscle damage, and now the limb was weakened and numbed.

Dorian blamed himself, in part.  Healing magic was not his primary focus, so he had fallen prey to the insidious thought ‘if I was just better at it, if I had tried harder to learn, I could have fixed this’.  Even though Piper was not unaffected by the… the crippling injury, she still did not blame him.  She did not blame Solas or Vivienne, or the other mages who all took a try at fixing the damage.  Even if she had been home, with all Earth’s medical knowledge and equipment, the outcome likely would have been the same.  She’d gotten help as soon as she could, and they had set and healed the bone as straight as any doctor could have.  In fact, she had somewhat come out ahead, for having been healed by magic, as she didn’t have to wear a cast for ten weeks.

So she’d likely have to use a cane for the rest of her life.  At least she  _ was  _ alive.  However much it hurt to lose the mobility, the physicality with which she had once lived her life, she was relieved and glad to still be breathing.  She could learn how to live with a crippled leg.

Maybe everyone would stop looking at her like she was a puppy someone had kicked once she was allowed out of bed.  The healers had all but chained her down once it became apparent that she’d caught a cold from her stroll through the blizzard (Lyra had escaped essentially all repercussions, the god-touched jerk), and the sneezing and coughing probably reinforced any ‘poor thing’ thoughts people had regarding her.  The general malaise the cold had her in was also probably partially responsible for how easily she was slipping into wallowing.

Piper should also admit that some of her dark mood was not due to her injury, or her illness, or her annoyance at how people were treating her.  A significant portion was born of grief and regret.  So many people had died at Haven.  Lyra, knowing that she would want— _ need _ —to know, had shared with her the list of casualties.  It sucked all the air out of the room, that list.  Piper had spent hours, days, teaching these soldiers how to apply tourniquets or make debris shelters.  They came to the tavern to buy her a drink or just listen to her sing.

There was that, too.  Maryden’s death.  It hit hard.  Harder still because, according to Lyra’s recounting of how the event played out in the game, Maryden never should have been in danger.  Therefore, something they had done had changed things, made it so that the bard was in the tavern when the dragon came and fireballed it.  Where Flissa would have been alone, injured by falling beams, Maryden had been with her, and had been killed by those falling beams.

Piper coughed into a scrap of linen, grimacing as she wiped away a bit of sputum that came up, and rolled over onto her side on her sickbed.  Staring at the wall, she tried not to let the tears burning in her eyes to fall.  She’d cried enough, she thought.  She just wanted to get up and get along with life.  Her therapist back home had advocated behavioral activation, but it was hard to take advantage of it when she wasn’t allowed to do anything.

She coughed again, gagging when it brought up a wad of crud into the back of her throat.  She leaned over the side of the bed and spat into the pot the healers had left on the floor for such a purpose.

“Ugh,” she said, body quivering as she fought against a retch.

“Sounds like you need another session,” came Dorian’s light tone from the doorway.

“Oh thank fuck, yes please,” she gasped, pressing her cheek against the cool sheets.  Dorian chuckled, and she felt the bed dip with his weight just before she felt his hands come to rest on her back.  The warm prickles of his magic followed shortly thereafter.

Magic couldn’t cure colds (apparently this was a universal constant), but it could do a lot to mitigate the symptoms.

Dorian soothed the inflammation in her lungs and throat, and then began the percussive pulses of magic that helped break up the phlegm congesting her breaths.  This was the most unpleasant part of her treatments, since it meant she’d soon be coughing and hacking the stuff up.  But once she did, her chest felt loosened, her lungs light and open; it was glorious.

“Solas or Vivienne will be continuing your treatments after this, as your sister seems intent on dragging my poor self back into the mud and rain of Ferelden,” Dorian said after they were done and Piper was leaning back on the pillows of her bed.

“Oh?” she said, voice a little rough from coughing.

“Crestwood,” he divulged.  “And apparently the scouts’ reports have been… soggy.”

Piper snickered at him a little.  “Poor pampered Altus.”

“Exactly!” he said with exaggerated drama.  “Eating campfire stew, sleeping in a tent, no proper bathhouse to speak of…”

“Terrible,” Piper said with amusement, though she had to admit she understood where he was coming from.  She had been  _ intensely  _ relieved, when she’d first come here, that Thedosian bathing customs were a lot more like feudal Japan than medieval Europe.  Most likely this was due to the abundance of natural hot springs here, which made sense since there were apparently extensive systems of tunnels and lava flows under the ground’s surface.  The ‘Deep Roads’ she thought people called them.  In any case, the ready availability of heated mineral-rich water had facilitated the development of hygiene-conscious societies.  People bathed frequently, in personal bathhouses if they were noble, or public ones if they were commoners.  Even Skyhold, up here in the mountains, had an extensive bathhouse through which a geothermal river flowed.  It certainly felt like pampering, and when you went out into the field it was easy to miss it.

“When do you expect to return?” Piper asked Dorian.

“Two weeks, is the best guess right now.”

“Oh,” she said, a little sadly.  “I’ll miss you.”

“Of course you will, I’m delightful,” he replied immediately, with his typical little quirk at the corner of his mouth.  Piper shook her head at him, smiling.

“You’re something.”

“A great many things, in fact.  Sadly, you shall have to make do without them.  However will you manage?”

“With a cushy bed, a full kitchen staff, and hot baths whenever I want, I expect.”

Dorian wheeled dramatically backward, one hand to his heart as if struck.  But there was laughter in his voice when he cried: “Ah!  A solid hit!  I am done for, cruel harpy!”

She laughed, which was his goal, she suspected.  He straightened his posture and smiled at her, looking pleased with himself.  On impulse, she reached over and took his hand.  “Thank you, Dorian.  I am glad to have your friendship.”

His expression softened, and his fingers gripped back.  “I never guessed when I left Tevinter that I would find so many friends in the South.  I had always expected to be as much a pariah here as I was back home.”

“Well, we’re all a little mad here,” she said fondly.  He chuckled.

“Indeed.” He looks into her eyes a moment, then clasps her hand a little tighter.  “You’ll be alright while I’m gone, yes?”

“Of course,” she said.  The annoyance that usually marked her response to such questions these days was gone for now, blunted by the warmth of friendship.  “Dorian, I have little to complain about.  I’m alive, my leg is still attached, for all that it’s a little worse for wear.  I will learn how to walk again, and everything will be fine.”

“Of course,” he echoed.  “When you are over this illness, do take the opportunity to walk about in the garden.  There must be some magic in this dusty old castle, as it is substantially warmer within the garden courtyard than anywhere else within the walls.”

“Yes.”

“And I will admit the view of the mountains is quite picturesque from the ramparts, even though it is bitterly cold up there.”

“I lived near mountains like these back home; I’ll be glad to see a familiar view.”

“The Commander has been exercising those great slavering beasts you call dogs in the kitchen yard.  I imagine you will do the same once you’re well.”

“Dorian.”

“There’s a building set aside for a tavern; I’ve been inside, the acoustics are as fine as any could be in a three-storey structure.”

“ _ Dorian _ .” He finally stopped and looked at her.  She met his gaze firmly.  “I’m going to be  _ fine _ .  I promise.”

The gentleness of her voice sparked a flash of vulnerability in his eyes, which he covered almost immediately with a wry smirk.  “You had best be.  I said I had more friends now than I expected, but I don’t have so many that I can afford to lose one.”

“If you lose me, it’s going to be to another Tevinter mage who’s better dressed and with a more impressive moustache, not to something like despair.”

“Oh good, then it’ll never happen!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We do actually see some hot springs in Inquisition, but frankly I think there'd be a lot more of them. I imagine southern Thedas is similar geologically to Yellowstone National Park... which is to say, hugely geothermally active. So yeah, with the amount of lava and shit we see in the Deep Roads, there's gonna be lots of geysers and hot springs in Thedas. And since the availability of water/heated water has a huge influence on bathing customs, I do really think Thedosians bathe more than we maybe give them credit for.


	23. Knowing How*

**Prompt: Knowing How***

**Word count: 2,007**

* * *

Cullen was having trouble keeping his gaze off of the Lady Inquisitor’s sister.  Part of it was guilt—which, he had been informed in no uncertain terms by both Hjaltason women, was entirely misplaced—for the way she hobbled awkwardly with her cane, unused to it yet.  He had been tasked with protecting her, protecting all of the Inquisition, and his lapse in vigilance had allowed the Elder One and his army to fall upon Haven like an unstoppable battering ram.  The Herald—now Inquisitor—had almost died for his failure, and Lady Piper had been permanently injured, her leg gone lame.  She had forgiven him, after a long lecture on why it hadn’t been his fault in the first place, but he couldn’t believe that, or forgive himself.

If he was honest with himself, the other part of why he kept finding his eyes drifting back to her was because it was _her_ .  She had wormed her way so easily past the walls duty and rank had placed around his emotions.  She was compassionate, and intelligent, _good_ in a way Cullen found he had little defense against.  He should care more that he was a Commander in the midst of a war, that she was named a Daughter of Andraste.  He should recognize the impropriety of his feelings, and that should be the end of it.

However…

She was up on the first landing of the great staircase of Skyhold, perched neatly on a small stool that had been provided for her.  Beside her, her sister and Mother Giselle worked through their parts.

The whole of Skyhold, all the soldiers and spies and merchants and servants and guests who had survived Haven and were currently in residence, had been gathered.  They filled the courtyard, but there was no roar of noise from the crowd.  Instead, they were all quietly listening to the Revered Mother’s prayers, and the Lady Inquisitor’s eulogies.

It was a memorial service for those who had given their lives in the defense of Haven.  The last had passed away only recently, the woman finally succumbing to the infection that had laced her burns despite their healers’ and alchemists’ best efforts.  The Inquisitor had only just returned from her mission in Crestwood, but had insisted on holding the memorial as soon as possible.  “I don’t need rest; I want to pay my respects.”

They’d quickly planned the memorial for the next day.  Cullen wasn’t sure if the Inquisitor had written her words herself, or had been given something pre-written by Josephine or Leliana.  They sounded like the Lady’s words, but he suspected the two other advisors were skilled enough to counterfeit such things.  Whichever was the case, the Inquisitor’s speeches mixed with Mother Giselle’s ministry were moving hearts throughout the Inquisition’s members.  There were no few tear-stained faces in the crowd.

And there were nearly no dry eyes once Lady Piper began singing.

_“Lay down your sweet and weary head,_

_Night is falling; you have come to journey’s end._

_Sleep now; and dream of the ones who came before;_

_They are calling from across the distant shore._

 

_“Why do you weep?  What are these tears upon your face?_

_Soon you will see; all of your fears will pass away._

_Safe in my arms, you’re only sleeping.”_

Cullen felt his heart squeezing in his chest.  It was a lament, but gentle, tender; bittersweet rather than crushingly mournful.  Though the melody was soft, her voice soared over them; he half suspected some magical help from one or more of the mages.  She looked well, despite having been injured and ill so recently.  Her voice had none of the rasp her cold had given it, thanks to the efforts of the healers.

_“What can you see on the horizon?_

_Why do the white gulls call?_

_Across the sea, a pale moon rises._

_The ships have come to carry you home._

 

_“And all will turn to silver glass._

_A light on the water._

_All souls pass.”_

The Inquisitor’s face was solemn and composed but for the silent tears running down her cheeks as she lit the symbolic pyre.  Most of the dead were buried along with the town when she’d triggered the last avalanche, and their bodies could not be retrieved, so this was all they could do for them.

_“Hope fades into the world of night,_

_Through shadows falling, out of memory and time._

_Don’t say we have come now to the end._

_White shores are calling; you and I will meet again._

_And you’ll be here in my arms, just sleeping._

 

_“And all will turn to silver glass._

_A light on the water._

_Grey ships pass into the West.”_

The crowd slowly dispersed after the last notes had faded, but the Daughters and Mother Giselle remained, watching the twisting flames.  Cullen stayed as well, watching the two foreign women who had become the heart and soul of the Inquisition.  After some time, Mother Giselle left, but they remained to watch the pyre burn down to ash.  They leaned against each other, but if they spoke, Cullen was too far away to hear.  Finally, when there was little more than faintly glowing embers left, they began to stir themselves to leave, and Cullen approached them to offer an arm to Lady Piper.

“Inquisitor, my lady,” he greeted them both quietly.  “May I escort you to your quarters?”  The Lady took his arm, her fingers trembling against the crook of his elbow.

“Commander,” said the Inquisitor in a tear-rough voice.  He glanced back toward the pyre.

“That was…” Words failed him, and Cullen cleared his throat.  “That was well done.”

She made a soft noise.  “Thank you, Commander, though I hope I will not have to do such things very often.”

“No,” Cullen replied quietly.  Their Inquisitor was a gentle-hearted one, not a fighter, and he knew she suffered as much guilt for the lives lost as he did.  “No, I hope not.”

A messenger came to fetch away the Inquisitor for Leliana, then, leaving Cullen alone with Lady Piper, whose hand he still cradled in the crook of his arm.  He cleared his throat again, awkwardly, not really knowing what to say.  “Your, er, song was beautiful, my lady.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she replied.  “It was one of my favorites back home.”

“It… Was it…Is that what your people believe happens, when you die?  That boats carry you to the afterlife?” He found himself hesitant to ask.  The sisters had rarely spoken of religion, and seemed uncomfortable with any reference to the Maker or Andraste ‘choosing’ them.  Perhaps they didn’t believe, or their beliefs were very private to them.

“No.  Well, kind of, I mean… It’s complicated.”  Thankfully, she didn’t seem offended.

“How so?” he asked the obvious question, rather than floundering around for a new topic.

“Well, there are a lot of religions where we came from, and they all have different beliefs.  Some think we need to preserve our dead, because they’ll rise again.  Others think we should return our bodies to the earth, to nurture new life.  Ships and sailing were very important to Lyra and my ancestors, so they actually used to bury the dead sometimes in boats or boat-like structures, I guess so that they can use them in the afterlife.  That’s not really done anymore,” she said thoughtfully.  “But you know, now that I’m thinking about it, the use of ships and journeys as metaphors for death is very popular across a lot of cultures; it pops up in a lot of poems and songs and such.  I guess death is still that ‘distant shore’ in a lot of our imaginings.”

She paused for a moment, slowing to a stop.  Cullen stopped too, and looked down at her as she glanced sheepishly up at him.  “That, um, song was written to go along with one of my people’s most well-known stories.  It’s not a part of any religion back home, which is part of why I chose it.”

“But there are songs connected to your religions?” Cullen intuited, becoming interested in the topic.  They started walking again, more slowly.  “Like the Chant?”

“Yeah.  Actually, there’s a lot of singing in our religions.  Not just singing parts of whatever holy scriptures they have, but there’s also hymns that people wrote to exalt their deity or deities, some of which become part of worship services.  Some of them are really beautiful.”  She looked at him and said, cautiously:  “I wish I could play a few for you, but I don’t think the right instruments exist here.  Though there’s a few I could sing.”

“I think I’d like that,” he said.

“It doesn’t bother you that they’d be from a religion other than yours?”

“No.” He felt his ears heat and knew color was blooming across his face, and had to elaborate.  “Perhaps that wouldn’t have been true a few years ago, but it is not something that disturbs me now.”

At his lowest point, he’d scorned all other religions for being too lenient on mages, for not having the good sense to create Circles or have templars.  He’d basked in his moral ‘superiority’ of being Andrastian, a sense that had been nurtured by the Chantry’s (rather unsubtle, he now realized) portrayal of any who lived outside their tenants as ‘barbaric’ and ‘uncivilized’.  His view of mages was not the only thing Cullen was trying to change.

They drew up to the door to the quarters Lady Piper shared with her sister, and she slipped her hand from his arm as she turned to face him.  She gave him a small, rather wan smile.  “Leliana asked me to… to take over what Maryden had been doing, singing up morale in the tavern, writing songs about the Inquisition.”

Cullen suppressed a wince; she had been friends with the minstrel.  To be given her job would sting.  How was he to respond without hurting her more?  “We would be privileged to be your audience, if you so choose.  Your… your voice is lovely.”

He watched a blush rise in her cheeks as her gaze darted away.   _Too bold, Rutherford, she doesn’t want compliments when she’s mourning her friend._

“Thank you,” she said.  An awkward silence fell.  Cullen didn’t know how to break it.  One hand tight around the hilt of his sword, the other rose to rub the back of his neck.  He almost jumped when she asked: “Will I see you there?”

“At… the tavern?”

She nodded, looking up at him.  “I know I’ve never saw you at the Singing Maiden, but I assumed it was mostly a ‘can’t drink with your subordinates’ thing and not an aversion to music or taverns themselves.”

“No, you are right; I can’t fraternize in such a manner.” Cullen paused.  In truth, it was more complicated than that.  He also rarely had the time to do something as frivolous as sit down for a pint of ale, and more often these days his headaches made the prospect of a building full of talking people sound like a nightmare.  But… “Perhaps I will stop by if I know when you are performing.”

This earned him a smile that made his breath catch.  “There’s a door from the balustrades that leads to the third floor of the tavern.  You could probably hear just fine up there, if you don’t want to brave the crowds.  Cole tends to hang out up there; you can join him.”

The prospect of the company of the strange spirit-boy with the propensity to voice the uncomfortable thoughts and emotions of those around him was not, Cullen thought, the best way to entice him.  But he understood that both of the Daughters were protective and tender with the boy, and were gently urging others to welcome him into their fold.  Perhaps it would not be so bad; if Cole started reading Cullen’s mind, there would not be anyone up there to hear it.

“I will,” he promised.  Her smile grew, and then she was going, cane tapping into her quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "Into the West" by Annie Lennox, from the LotR soundtrack. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shdiTRxTJb4
> 
> Also, I made a tumblr for my AO3 identity; it'll be full of writing stuff. Not much there right now, but I have mock-ups of Lyra and Piper if you want a hint of what they look like (as close as a dollmaker can get anyway). https://nomdeguerrewrites.tumblr.com/post/164174203103/i-made-piper-and-lyra-my-two-ocs-in-swedish


	24. Possession

**Prompt: Possession**

**Word count: 1,192**

* * *

It was something of an unspoken secret among the advisors that the Inquisitor and her sister were not restful sleepers.  They had known since Haven, when Cullen had come across Lady Piper soothing her sister’s dreams of the death and violence of the Hinterlands and had realized that Lyra’s serene mask had been just that—a mask.  She was good, Leliana had to admit, and had fooled almost all of them.  Lady Piper herself had also proven talented at hiding her inner turmoil later, after her encounter with the Envy demon.  She had been distressed by it, but had seemed to bounce back relatively quickly.  But Leliana, and through her the advisors, knew that restless nights and dark thoughts plagued the sisters.

If they had been mages, it might have been more of a concern, but their nightmares were mostly benign, not liable to result in mage storms or possession—Leliana had made a point to ask Solas whether the Anchor would make the Inquisitor vulnerable to demons, but he had assured her that neither Daughter was in any danger from their dreamings in Fade.  The advisors and the Inquisitor’s inner circle all looked out for the sisters, offering listening ears or supportive shoulders, but there was only so much they could do.  None of them had the power to prevent nightmares, only the understanding and support to help the women cope.

So, when Leliana saw the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, she took it.  The Inquisition was without a minstrel, the tavern empty of song, Ferelden and Orlais silent of song-stories of their exploits.  However much people dismissed Maryden as unimportant, she had, in truth, been vital to the Inquisition.  Song improved the soldiers’ morale, gave them things to feel and stories to experience to take them away from the work of their daily lives.  Maryden’s compositions recounting the Inquisitions battles and successes traveled widely, bringing news of and faith in the Inquisition to even the smallest hamlets.  They needed someone to fill her position.

Piper was injured, physically and mentally, from everything they had faced up to this point.  Music was one of the things that helped her; without music she wilted like a flower, but with it, she flourished.  It was a simple enough thing to install her as the new minstrel and solve two problems at once.  It did raise one new problem, but it was easily addressed.

“What instruments should we procure for your sister?” Leliana asked the Inquisitor, when she visited her in the raven cote.  Lyra blinked.

“Have you asked her?”

“Would she answer, or would she be afraid of asking for too much?”

Lyra’s mouth twisted wryly.  “Touché.  Hm.  I’m not sure what kind of instruments you have here.”

“Describe the ones she would use in your homeland, and we will see if we have something comparable.”

To Lyra’s visible delight, there was considerable overlap in instrumentation between their nations.  After a brief discussion, Leliana had made notes for Josephine to procure a lute, an Antivan guitar, three different types of flute, a lap harp, a standing harp, a fiddle, and an assortment of drums.

“Are you sure that isn’t too much?” Lyra asked, uncertain.

“Of course not,” Leliana had assured her.  “Your sister is not the only one who would benefit from this.  There are many soldiers who are eager to hear her sing again, as well as no few of my own agents.”

The Inquisitor smiled proudly.  “Piper does have a nice voice.”

“There may also be some hope that  _ both _ Daughters will sing for their forces,” Leliana said, putting a sly little lilt in her voice.  Holy Andraste had sung for her soldiers, something that the men and women of Inquisition had not forgotten.  It was only right that Her herald, Her daughters, did the same.  It would make the Chantry even more nervous, but it would also bolster the faithful, strengthen their resolve, and that was what Leliana cared most about.

Lyra made a face.  “It’s still strange to me for so many people to be so...so…  _ reverent  _ of me.  I’m just a woman.  Nothing special.”

“You may be the only one who believes that.”

“Liar.  Piper definitely doesn’t think I’m holy.”

“I will concede that,” Leliana said, and found herself smiling thinly.  As she did each time she spoke at length with the Inquisitor, she saw the echo of Elissa Cousland in her.  Steady, compassionate, humble.  Wry humor and a warm smile.  Recognizing those things in Lyra made her feel more vulnerable than she was perhaps comfortable with.  Even though those days had been filled with danger, a Blight sweeping the land and a civil war threatening, Leliana thought that it had been the happiest time in her life.

She wasn’t sure if she loved the Herald of Andraste for making her feel more like the young lay-sister she had been, or hated her for the same.  The Leliana of the Fifth Blight had been softer, more innocent and an unwavering advocate of mercy.  If she were that naive child again, would she be the weak pillar that lead to the collapse of the Inquisition?

“Do you want me to take the list to Josephine?  I’m heading down there anyway,” Lyra asked presently, drawing Leliana out from her contemplations.

“No, I have matters of my own to attend to with Josie.”  Leliana straightened and glanced at her, adding: “I thank you for the offer.”

“No problem,” Lyra said with a shrug, and moved toward the stairwell.  She hadn’t gone far when she paused and glanced back over her shoulder.  “Would you ever consider joining us, Leliana?  In the tavern?  You sing beautifully, I remember.”

The question surprised her.  Not that she thought Lyra ignorant of her musical inclination, but more that it had been so long since she’d last used that particular aspect of her bardic training that the possibility hadn’t even occurred to her.  In the last few years, her energies had been more turned to espionage, assassinations, and manipulations.  ‘The Dawn Will Come’, in the mountains, had been the first time she’d actually sung in three years.  It had been longer since she’d played a lute.

“You know,” Lyra said as the silence stretched, “I think you’re a bit like Piper.  You need music; it’s in your heart.  I think it would be good for you to come sing with us, at least once.  And it would make Piper happy, too.  She’s mentioned what a shame it is you don’t sing more.”

With that, Lyra left, not waiting for Leliana’s reply or reaction.  In truth, Leliana wasn’t sure what kind of reply she would have made.  She had not thought it so obvious, but the Herald spoke the truth: There was a silence in her heart that ached.  Song had been important to her, but it had withered in her along with her faith.

Leliana turned to look back at the icon of Andraste she had set up in a niche in the cote, the simple wooden statue staring sightlessly forward in a posture of serene benevolence.  “I hear you,” she murmured.  “I am listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me softened Leliana or give me death (actually literally what you get if you make her Divine when she's hardened: Murder Pope).
> 
> Again, I made a blog for my AO3 identity. nomdeguerrewrites. Look me up if you want.


	25. Echoes

**Prompt: Echoes**

**Word count: 1,153**

* * *

The Exalted Plains might have once been beautiful, but that time was centuries and many battles in the past.  The fires of the most recent war were even still burning!  Demons and undead prowled, and if Lyra saw  _ one more fucking monument _ to the Exalted Marches…

The Emerald Graves were a little better, but only because it hadn’t been as settled as the Plains; there were only a couple Orlesian manors in the forest.  But there were still Andrastian statues slapped over elvish landmarks and ruins.  The message was pretty clear: “This isn’t  _ your  _ place, it’s  _ ours _ .”

If Lyra didn’t know better, she’d blame it all on religion.  Zealots in every culture did horrible things in the name of their god or gods, but it wasn’t religion itself that was the problem.  Rather, the root of the problem lay in the  _ people _ .  Some people can live religious lives without hurting anybody else, but some people just use religion as an excuse and justification for hate.  The biggest problem with Thedas, besides Darkspawn, was that they didn’t have a separation of church and state.  By marrying religion and government, they’d opened the door for a lot of dangerous abuses of power.  In such a situation, the people in power could do anything they wanted, effectively, because all they had to do was claim it was divine will and there wouldn’t be anyone to argue the fact, since the people in power were also the voice of the religion.

She knew she’d already begun to change things (hopefully they’d be lasting, beneficial changes) as the Inquisitor and as the Herald.  Her actions and words echoed in the world; people were watching.  Hell, if the events in the game held true, she’d eventually have a hand in choosing the next Divine.  She wasn’t powerless, but the kind of sweeping changes to society, religion, and mindframe she was enacting were hardly  _ fast _ .  And in the meantime, injustices continued.

“Are you… alright?” Varric asked hesitantly, as Lyra quietly snarled obscenities under her breath and kicked a rock.  He and her other companions stood carefully back from her unusual display of vitriol.

“I’m fine,” she spat.  Varric and the others did not look convinced.  “It’s just… This is horribly familiar, in a very bad way.  A land lost and conquered, the natives driven to poverty and homelessness and second-class citizenship… There are stories like that back home, and they’re horrible and make me so mad!  And we didn’t have things like Darkspawn killing scores of us in an endless war of attrition.  Are there really so many people on Thedas that you can afford these wars between you all?  That you can afford to enact a genocide against one whole group of people?  Elves should be your allies!   _ Everyone _ should be allied against the Darkspawn!  Instead you all ignore the problem, turn your swords against each other, until you’re  _ forced  _ to recognize your common enemy again.  It’s  _ stupid _ .  It’s  _ so stupid _ .”

She was shouting by the end, face undoubtedly red.  She whirled away, stalking some distance from them, saying over her shoulder: “I need a minute alone.”

_ Before I go for someone’s throat _ , she thought darkly.  She knew it wasn’t their faults, exactly.  They didn’t create this world, they just lived in it.  But they  _ did  _ live in it, doing nothing to try to improve it.  For all their talk about defending the defenseless, or standing as shields for the people, there was an awful lot of injustice they allowed to happen.  That they approved of, even; the best example being the Circles.

It continued to astound her, really, how stupidly blind people could be.  How nobody thought anything could go wrong with putting a group of people entirely at the mercy of another, and what’s more, dressing up the situation as  _ divinely ordained _ , she will never know.  Of course the Templars would abuse the mages!  Everything about the situation made that inevitable.  

And the  _ elves _ … How easily the Chantry forgot about Shartan, forgot about how the Dales had been gifted to the elves for their part in Andraste’s rebellion against Tevinter.  They’d cut Shartan’s verses from the Chant, destroyed any art depicting him, scrubbed any hint of Andraste’s elvish champion from Chantry lore.  Because they’d wanted to wage war on the elves, and didn’t want anyone questioning it.

Lyra picked up a rock and pitched it as hard as she could against a tree.

These were  _ her  _ problems now.  As Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, people would look to  _ her  _ to bring peace and order to the world.  And however much power those titles granted her, she knew not everyone would fall over themselves to obey her.  Cough  _ Orlais  _ cough.  Orlais, with the Chantry as entrenched in the country as it was, was the preeminent power in Thedas.  If Lyra’d learned anything from the games, it was that Celene didn’t give a fuck about the Inquisition.  She was in it for herself (and Orlais but only because she  _ owned  _ Orlais).  If she thought she could get away with something, she tried.  She was  _ never  _ not playing the Game.  

And the Chantry wouldn’t support Lyra— _ didn’t _ support her, as was obvious by the very vitriolic denouncement they’d delivered when people had first began speaking of the Herald of Andraste.  They hated her, presumably because she stood to take power away from them.  She disrupted the monopoly on divine fiat they had been holding for centuries.  What if people started listening to the Herald more than them?  The only way they’d support her is if they could control her.

“What am I  _ doing  _ here?” she whispered to herself, pulling at handfuls of her hair.  She was practically a fucking world leader.  None of this was what Lyra was trained for.  She studied biology, went to medical school.  She could diagnose the hell out of a patient, and knew how to treat injuries ranging from sunburns to severed limbs, but politics?  Diplomacy?  Not her wheelhouse.  And, sure she had Leliana and Josephine to help her traverse the dangerous waters of international politics, but… This was too big.  There was too much she needed to fix, too many evils here.

_ Just when you have the power to make a difference, you freeze like a coward,  _ a corner of her mind hissed.  Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears gathering at the corners.

_ Stop.  It.   _ She thought fiercely at herself.   _ Stop.  You CAN do this.  You have to.  You ARE the Inquisitor, the Herald.  These people are depending on you.  You WILL do your best.  Be smart.  Be efficient.  Don’t lose sight of what’s important. _

Unlike the games, there was no reloading to try again.  She couldn’t falter.

_ You aren’t alone.  You’re surrounded by people who will work with you to build the world you imagine.  Together, we will succeed. _

Lyra took a few deep, calming breaths, then turned back to rejoin her companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyra has Feelings.
> 
> Writing tumblr - nomdeguerrewrites


	26. Falling*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell yeah you guys, we finally get to this song! This is the song that inspired Swedish Firesteel. The whole thing is basically an excuse to write someone singing this in Skyhold (okay, and a few other songs; but seriously I bet Skyhold has some fucking fantastic acoustics and probably the first thing I would do there is find places to sing and guys I don't even sing I just really like music I would fucking drag Cullen or Leliana places and make them sing to me).

**Prompt: Falling**

**Word count: 1,535**

Skyhold was a shithole.  What kind of civilized people could consider this climate  _ liveable  _ was beyond—

Ah.  Yes, right.  They were hardly civilized at all; how silly of Dorian.   _ Vishante kaffas _ , but it was cold.  He might have to consider changing his outfit; this weather was making his bare shoulder prickle with goosebumps, and woe betide him if he brushed bare skin against any of the metal buckles or grommets of his frock.

Skyhold had some saving graces.  It had been built well and strongly, and augmented by magic.  If the notes they had found in the moldy library in the basement were correct, it had been built by Fereldans centuries ago, on ancient elven ruins.  The elves had used the land for some kind of magic ritual or something, which meant that, when the fortress was built, all that lingering environmental magic seeped into the stones.  The keep was bespelled, warmed and warded such that plants grew in the courtyards and gardens, despite it being the dead of winter in the middle of the Frostbacks.  And despite the geothermal river that flowed beneath its foundation, the structure was barely damaged; the waters had not eaten away at the rock even after centuries of abandonment.  In fact, while there was some damage like crumbling walls and roofs, Skyhold was largely livable immediately upon their arrival; cleaning and repairing the castle took only a few short weeks.  It was almost a miracle, to find a fortress of such size and splendor standing ready for them after Haven.

Dorian snorted at himself.  A miracle, indeed.  He hardly believed in such things.  Believe in the Maker and Andraste, yes, to an extent.  But even the Tevinter Chantry agreed that the Maker had left his creation.  There were no miracles in the world, only victories made by mortals, and luck.

He had to admit, however, that the Daughters seemed more skilled than most at creating victories.  The Inquisitor in particular could probably fall into a latrine pit and find a gold sovereign in the muck.  She was smart and phenomenally lucky, coming away from Haven with only a few bruises and a concussion that had been healed in minutes by Vivienne’s skillful casting.  Even her sister was more extensively injured, though they had both by some mad luck, survived.  Two noncombatants had faced a Darkspawn Magister and his Blighted dragon, brought an avalanche down upon them, dove down a mineshaft, and walked through a blizzard to the Inquisition camp.  To survive any one of those things would have been surprising, but they survived all.  Not to mention the fact that they had somehow survived falling through Rifts in the first place.  Dorian would almost be in awe of them, if he wasn’t so aware of the heavy burdens they carried along with that amazing luck.

Well, alright, he was a  _ little  _ bit in awe of them, but it didn’t have anything to do with thinking them  _ holy  _ or anything ridiculous like that.  It was more the awe of knowing someone who would completely disregard the opinions and warnings of those around them and befriend a pariah Tevinter Altus anyway.  Both Lyra and Piper had immediately and unreservedly accepted him, trusting him with an ease that was astonishing.  Everyone else in the south had looked at him with the customary suspicion and contempt.  It had been refreshing… and a relief.  He hadn’t expected to find friends here, but now that he had, he could admit that they eased a loneliness inside him that he hadn’t realized was there.  It was wearying to be treated like an evil, blood-soaked, orgy-hosting Vint mage all the time.  Though many of the Inquisition’s people did not act that way.  There was suspicion and wariness, yes, and perhaps they were more disgusted with his presence than they revealed, but largely he was treated with a distant sort of politeness.  Either the Inquisition were better liars than he expected or they were actually giving him a chance.  And knowing Lyra and Piper, Dorian rather thought it might be the latter.

He shivered again, and turned to go inside, having gotten his fill of another of Skyhold’s saving graces—a truly lovely view of the sunrise over mountains.  As insouciant and lazy as he acted, never let it be said that Dorian Pavus could not appreciate beauty where he saw it.  A bright movement caught the corner of his eye before he reached the door to the keep, though, and he looked over to see Piper, clad in a fetchingly purple dress, ascending a set of stairs to the balustrades.  She carried a large, flat drum in one hand.  Her two monstrous dogs followed her.  After a brief hesitation, so did Dorian.

His path meant that she reached her destination first, stopping to speak to one of the soldiers on patrol.  The morning light flashed off the soldier’s helmet as they nodded, then Dorian lost sight as he ducked into one of the towers that dotted the outer wall.  Coming out on the other side, he paused briefly to check where Piper had gone.

She was standing on a slightly lower portion of the wall than he, and Dorian stopped, curious as to what she was up to but unwilling to interrupt.  As he watched, she leaned her cane against a crenellation, and resettled her drum and a drumstick more comfortably into her hands.  Her mabari sat attentively as she began to drum out a soft, regular heartbeat.  She increased the volume slowly, eyes closing and head lifting as she internalized the beat.  And then she began to sing.

Dorian had heard her sing at the memorial, and she had sounded sweet then.  This was different.  The tone of the song was different, more primal, and so her voice reflected that.

_ “Trøllabundin eri eg, eri eg. _

_ Galdramađur festi meg, festi meg. _

_ Trøllabundin djúpt í míni sál, í míni sál. _

_ Í hjartanum logar brennandi bál, brennandi bál.” _

He didn’t recognize the language, but what curiosity he felt vanished into attentive enjoyment as her voice began to rise and fall in a melodic wail that echoed off the stone walls around them, underpinned by the steady drumbeat.  Piper’s eyes were still closed, her body swaying slightly as she drummed and sang.  The wail faded and there was a pause, before the beat changed and Piper began… Growling, was perhaps the best word Dorian could think of for it.  It was guttural, in the throat, growling and panting, like an animal.  But somehow still beautiful, somehow still captivating.  The hairs at the back of Dorian’s neck rose.  She segued smoothly into another verse, the steady beat resuming, but now with an extra flourish within it.

_ “Trøllabundin eri eg, eri eg. _

_ Galdramađur festi meg, festi meg. _

_ Trøllabundin inn í hjartarót, í hjartarót. _

_ Eyga mítt festist har iđ galdramađurin stóđ.” _

She began the wail again, and Dorian managed to drag his eyes from her to glance around.  Surely he wasn’t the only one to witness this.  If so, he would have to make Piper perform it again.  It was unlike any singing he’d heard before.

There were a couple soldiers, clearly taking their time in patrolling nearby sections of the balustrades.  And, a little ways down, the form of the Commander of the Inquisition, the fur of his collar and crimson of his coat unmistakeable.  The pale smear of his face was turned toward them, and as Dorian watched, a runner came and stood, unacknowledged, beside him.

Piper’s eyes were still closed as she went into another refrain of the guttural humming.  Her breaths were sucked in so quickly that they made a little whooping noise in counterpoint to the growling.  Her drumming throbbed, the sounds bouncing off the stone walls and echoing across the mountains.

And then it ended, with one last little whoop that returned to them in ever-softer echoes until it faded completely.  Dorian realized he’d been holding his breath, and let it out with a sigh.  He waited until Piper had opened her eyes and lowered the drum to call down:

“My dear!  That’s was positively  _ enthralling _ .”

She craned her neck around and grinned up at him.  “Dorian!  Thank you; I was dying to sing that since we got here, really.  The acoustics are just too perfect for it.”

“You’ve certainly made my morning,” Dorian said.  “And perhaps a few others’ as well.”

He tilted his chin and Piper looked as he directed, catching sight of the Commander just as he entered his tower office, finally taking the report from the runner he’d been ignoring.  Dorian watched as a subtle color came into her face, lips lifting into a tiny smile.

“I wish  _ he  _ would sing more,” she said, voice wistful.

“Sweet girl, I’m certain you could get him to sing for you,” he told her with a smirk, and watched the blush spread.  He was scenting something here, something between the Commander and the Inquisition’s songbird.  It was… sweet.

“That was hardly subtle, Dorian.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he said, hearing the smugness in his own voice.  Piper frowned and then stuck her tongue out at him, startling him into a laugh.  He might like the south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Trøllabundin by Eivør Pálsdóttir. Her voice is what I imagine for Piper's voice (and I kind of headcanon she looks like her, but with a pixie cut). Musically I like the version that's on the album Slør (that whole album is awesome): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOsFQ-VUeMw
> 
> I also like the quality of sound from one live concert (echo-y fjords ftw), though the drumset that pops in near the end is... weird? Not sure it works. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wsl-KHGe4Kk


	27. Making History

**Prompt: Making History**

**Word count: 1,170**

* * *

Josephine scattered pouncing dust onto the completed letter, and grabbed the cloth to clean off her quill nib, sighing.  It was the last letter, she hoped, that she would have to write in order to secure the Inquisition an invitation to Empress Celene’s ball.  There was, however, still the matter of appropriate transportation—the Inquisitor could hardly be seen arriving on horseback like a common soldier—and lodging, and the concern of what the Inquisitor would wear…

She lifted the paper carefully and tapped the used dust into the bin at the side of her desk that already had about two finger widths of used dust at the bottom.  The ink dry, Josephine was free to fold the letter and seal it with a wax impression of the Inquisition’s Sword-Sunburst-Eye.  That done, she quietly stretched out her fingers, cramped after so much writing.  It was time for a break, mid-afternoon.  The last time she’d set down her quill had been hours ago.

Rising from her desk, Josephine decided that she might take tea in the gardens.  She slipped down the side passage just before the door to the main hall, hoping to avoid the clustered diplomats and guests who lingered there.  The passage and staircase took her into the lower levels of Skyhold, which had not yet been entirely cleared of rubble and dust.  The Inquisition’s guests did not venture down there; the halls and rooms were mostly used by soldiers and servants for the time being.  It meant that she was not stopped along the way by impatient courtiers and diplomats.

The kitchen workers made up a tray for her very quickly, one of the young scullery maids appointed to carry it for her as she walked to the garden courtyard.  It was a lovely day, by Fereldan standards, the sun shining and the sky a delicate pale blue.  It was colder than Antiva, but the geothermal river beneath Skyhold warmed the stone structure and the ground around it, and the ambient magic of the ancient elven site held the warmth within the fortress.  With the garden flourishing under the care of their gardeners, and a pot of tea by her side, Josephine was quite comfortable.

Taking a first sip of her tea, she gave an invisible sigh of contentment.  She never would have guessed, in the beginning, that she would be in this position—everything had changed so quickly.  At first, the Inquisition had been small and finding support and allies had been challenging; nobody had wanted to rouse the Chantry’s ire by associating with the up-starts.  Then, as they were just gaining influence, Corypheus had seemingly crushed them.  And now, with news of the Herald’s miraculous survival and rise to Inquisitor spreading, Josephine found herself in the enviable situation of having nobles come to Skyhold to chase alliances, rather than the Inquisition having to do the chasing.

It meant a lot of work, but she relished the chance, and the challenge.  The world was beginning to see what they had, all this time.

_ Well,  _ she corrected herself conscientiously,  _ not  _ all _ this time.  But we did realize very quickly just how true of a title Herald was for Lady Lyra. _

She turned her teacup idly in her hands, gazing around the garden with distant focus.  The Herald had lead them well, from the start.  Upon waking in the dungeon after the Conclave was destroyed, she had been confused and disoriented, and yet Cassandra spoke of how she’d immediately begun to help.  Once she’d woken after stabilizing the Breach, she had leapt into helping as well.  Despite not knowing how to fight, she had willingly gone out to the Hinterlands, to the Storm Coast and the Fallow Mire, putting herself in mortal peril for the Inquisition.  Trusting the Inquisition to keep her safe where she could not.

And then, when her sister Lady Piper had appeared, she had done the same thing.  Throwing herself into helping, Lady Piper had endeared herself to the advisors just as casually and simply as her sister had.

Josephine had not started out believing the sisters had been sent by the Maker; the titles and the rumors had at first been a way to influence public opinion.  Calling them the Daughters of Andraste had been useful.  But with everything that had happened, and everything they had done, perhaps the rumors weren’t that far from the truth.

But whether or not the women were chosen by Andraste or the Maker, the fact remained that they, and the Inquisition, were powers not to be ignored.  Like the Inquisition of old, they and their people would shape Thedas for ages to come.  Josephine believed that easily.  The Breach, Corypheus, the Mage-Templar War, the assassination threat on Empress Celene, the missing Wardens, the Ventori, the Red Templars…  Any one of those things might have become immortalized in the annals of history.  But the Inquisition was taking on all of them.  Had solved some of them already.

As numerous as their enemies might seem, Josephine believed that they would overcome.  What she did fear was what it would cost them.  Heroism was a dangerous business; history bore that out.  They had already nearly lost the Inquisitor, and Lady Piper’s leg was lamed.  They had lost a large portion of their fighting force, as well as their base of operations.  While the Inquisition had bounced back from their losses at Haven—recruitment was up and Skyhold was much more suitable a base than a poor mountain village—those losses were remembered, and worried over.  Would such costs be typical of confrontations with Corypheus?  It was too early to tell.  However, hopefully the alliances they were making now would give them the strength and resources to hold fast against the creature.

Josephine finished the last of her tea and set the cup back on the tray.  Almost immediately, it was whisked away by the scullery maid who had been lingering for just that purpose.  She nodded her thanks to the girl, who dipped a curtsey and hurried back to the kitchens.

Ages ago, the first Inquisition had protected the people against demons and maleficarum.  It had transcended borders, been a beacon of order.  The reborn Inquisition was the same.  Where before there had been suspicion and contempt, people were now looking at them with hope and respect.  Within their ranks, Orlesians and Fereldans worked together.  Elves, dwarves, and humans worked together.   Misbehavior, including racism and prejudice, were not tolerated in any who served.  If nothing else, the Inquisitor had ensured that the Inquisition would be remembered as a unifying force.  Anything else was still being decided, by Cullen’s work with the army, Leliana’s with their information networks, and with Josephine’s work in earning them allies.

Each raw recruit molded into disciplined soldier, each noble pledging manpower or resources, each eye set to watch for target or weakness was a weight set to their advantage, and Josephine would do all she could to ensure the scale was tipped in their favor.  As Cullen would say: To work.


	28. The True You*

**Prompt: The True You***

**Word count: 1,851**

* * *

 

Working for the Inquisition was quickly becoming the Iron Bull’s favorite job to date.  Plenty of things to kill, a nice tavern to return to afterward, and the Inquisitor was unbending in her demands that all Inquisition agents be treated with respect.  They could almost be called  _ welcoming  _ of the Qunari in their midst, for the most part.  And the  _ redheads _ …!  There were a fair number in the ranks; the Inquisitor herself was one, though he got the feeling that she wouldn’t be receptive to sexual overtures from anybody.  Well enough, there were plenty others willing to ride the bull.  Besides, she gave him other gifts.  Like the one they were just celebrating.

“Ataaaaaaaashiiii.”  Bull drew the vowels out like a sigh, tasting the sweetness of them through the bitter burn of the maraas-lok in his cup.  “Ah, Boss, you give me the best fights.”

Lyra smiled faintly from her spot at his elbow.  “Well, I’m glad  _ someone _ enjoyed that.  Personally, I’d rather not face down a dragon again.  Ever.”

“Hear hear!” agreed Varric emphatically.  Lyra held out her mug to him and he tapped it with his own.

Bull laughed.  “You’re only saying that because you didn’t get to do any of the fun stuff.  Get a weapon in your hand and you’d be singing a different song.”

She snorted.  “Unlikely.”

“The Iron Bull does have a point,” said Blackwall carefully.  “It might behoove you to learn to defend yourself in the field.  Even just a knife might make you feel safer.”

She blew a raspberry.  “Did you just say ‘behoove’?  Oh my god, Piper, he just said ‘behoove’.”

Her sister, significantly less drunk than Lyra, smirked.  “Forsooth, he did.”

Lyra gave her a squinty-eyed look, then stuck out her tongue.  Bull poured more into her mug.  “Put that away if you’re not going to use it.”

“Eeeewww,” she said, scrunching her nose in a exaggerated expression of disgust.  She lifted her mug and took a swig, then immediately spat it out, sputtering.  “What!  W-what’d you do to my mead?”

“Is that what you were drinking?” he asked.  “I thought it was water.”

Blackwall snorted a laugh, quickly schooling his face as Lyra scowled at him in indignation.

“C’mon, Boss, you gotta drink something more fitting for such a victory.  We took down a  _ dragon _ .  It spat lightning at us and everything.”  He couldn’t keep the tone of awe and appreciation from his voice, and didn’t try.  It had been glorious.  The fight had been glorious.

“You know, there was a famous guy back home who said you could learn a lot about someone by who their enemies are,” Piper said.

“We have a similar saying,” Bull admitted.

“What would our enemies mean for us, Birdie?” Varric asked.

“That you’re a bunch of crazy mother fuckers!” Lyra said, and laughed.

“She’s not really wrong,” Krem muttered as he cradled a mug of ale.

“She says that like  _ she  _ isn’t one, too,” Piper muttered as well, as her sister leaned hard against Bull to point her finger emphatically at Krem, who was sitting on his other side.

“Don’t be a wet blanket, Krem brûlée, Krem fraîche, Krem de la crème, Krem de menthe, Krem anglaise.”

“Oh Jesus,” Piper muttered again.  Krem chuckled a little and shook his head.

“How much have you had?” he asked.

“Mmm,” Lyra said, face in her mug.  “I dunno.  Didn’t keep track.”

“Not much,” Blackwall said in amusement.  “Bit of a lightweight.”

“Sadly, I don’t think either of us inherited the Viking drinking genes,” Piper said, peering into the bottom of her mug and looking a little flushed.

“The what?” Krem said, as Bull asked:

“How much have  _ you _ had?”

“Eh,” Piper said, setting her mug very deliberately down onto the tabletop.  “Two?  I’m only  _ mostly  _ drunk.  Not like Ally Alcohol over there.  One more sip and I think she’ll be dancing on the tables.”

“I might want to see that,” Varric said, as Blackwall’s eyebrows rose.  Actually, Bull kind of wanted to see that, too.  There were no dances in the Qun, but he’d seen plenty of different sorts as a traveling mercenary.  He wondered what sort of dances the two foreign women knew.

“No you don’t,” Piper giggled.  “She can’t dance for shit.  All flailing and awkward.”

“I can too dance!” protested Lyra.  “Watch!”

Bull had to steady her as she leapt to her feet and wobbled, staggering sideways a step and fetching up against him.  His hand went to her shoulder to keep her in place.  She found her feet and smiled at him before turning back to her sister.  “I can totally dance, watch this!”

Piper was right.  Flailing and awkward.  Across the table, Varric winced, but he seemed, like the rest of them, incapable of looking away from the disaster.  Piper was bent over the table, wheezing out a laugh with tears on her face.  “Oh my god, Lyra, stop!  Stop!  You absolute disgrace!”

Laughing, Lyra struck a pose with more enthusiasm than grace, then flopped into Krem’s lap, who caught her automatically with a startled yelp.

“Maybe you should stick to inquisiting,” Varric suggested.  She made a face at him, mischief clear in her voice when she replied.

“I said I could dance, but I never said I could dance  _ well _ .”  The retort drew laughs from everyone nearby.  Bull smiled, watching her with interest.  Her sister said she was drunk, but he didn’t think she was so drunk as to be completely unaware of what she was doing.  Which, interestingly, meant she felt secure enough around them to  _ let _ herself act that uninhibited.

“Hey Birdie, how about a song?” Varric said.  Piper hummed.

“Okay.  Any requests?”

“Surprise me,” he said.

“What about something with that Antivan guitar,” Bull suggested.  “It’s unusual that you know how to play it; most Fereldans play lute.”

“Mm, I’m not Fereldan,” Piper said absently, clearly thinking through her repertoire.

“Where  _ are  _ you from?”

“You won’t have heard of it,” Piper said dismissively.  “Okay, Varric, I’m going to play you something to knock your socks off, so you’d better pay attention!”

Bull wasn’t frustrated.  He’d hoped that the drink would have loosened her tongue enough that he could solve some of the mysteries surrounding the Daughters of Andraste, but he wasn’t Ben-Hasraath because of his impatience.  Push too hard and you’ll end up with no information and all paths to that information closed.  He’ll figure out the strange contradictions that make up the two women, eventually.  But for now, he intended on enjoying himself.

Piper had retrieved her guitar and was sitting on their table, feet propped on the bench.  Cradling the instrument in her lap, she tuned it quickly, stretched out her fingers, and then started playing.

She strummed it quickly and loudly, a rapid run that she punctuated with a couple swift claps of her open palm against the body of the guitar that didn’t even interrupt the notes.  She hit a chord with a dramatic flourish that might otherwise had signaled an end to a song, but brought her hands quickly back to the strings and then, slowly, quietly, continued to play.  Bit by bit, she got louder and louder, faster and faster.  It was a very Antivan-sounding song, Bull thought, though maybe that was just because of the guitar.  Still, Piper played it with obvious skill.

Lyra began to clap along with the racing melody, Piper glancing up from the strings to flash her a brief grin.

The song bounced between loud and quiet, fast and slow, the sisters keeping perfect time with each other.  As they approached the ending, the speed and volume began to creep up one last time.  Piper curled around the guitar, attention focused completely on the rapid movements of her fingers on the strings.  The silence after the last note was deafening, then:

“Shit, Birdie,” Varric breathed.  “Do you have six fingers on each hand?”

Piper, pink-faced, laughed.  The silence broken, everyone was suddenly clamoring to talk to her, exclaim over the song and how she’d played it.  She grinned shyly at the accolades, her sister beaming proudly in the background.

“Damn,” Bull rumbled, catching Piper’s attention.  “You’re good with your hands.”

She wasn’t oblivious, or naive.  She caught the innuendo immediately, and mischief sparked in her eyes, as intended.  Her reply was sly.  “Oh, you have no idea.”

He laughed.  From the second floor of the tavern, Sera screamed her perennial request: “PLAY SOMETHIN’ DIRTY!”

Already primed for troublemaking, Piper took to the suggestion easily.  “IF YOU WANNA HEAR IT GET DOWN HERE, SERA!”

A thump and a couple thuds, and Sera dropped off the side of the stairs with a broad, shit-eating grin.  “What, you’re really gonna do it?  No pissin’ about?”

“Lyra’s too drunk to protest, and I’m just drunk enough to completely ruin my reputation,” Piper said.  Lyra gave her a clearly rude gesture, but didn’t protest.  The celebration and drink had made more than just Piper impish, obviously.  Everyone else, having listened with interest to the shouting, laughed and leaned in like naughty children.

“What, really?  Alright, then, let’s hear it!” Sera dropped into the seat immediately in front of Piper and gestured at her to get on with it.  Obligingly, she resettled her guitar and cleared her throat, schooling her face.

“Upon request from my dear friend Sera, I will now serenade you all with my rendition of ‘The Good Ship Venus’,” she announced in an affected pompous voice.  She inclined her head regally, then flicked her eyes up at them with a grin.  “Also known as: ‘Friggin’ in the Riggin’.”

The name itself brought hoots and whistles, which quickly silenced as Piper struck the opening chord.

“ _On the good ship_ _ Venus , _

_ By Christ you should’ve seen us, _

_ The figurehead was a whore in bed, _

_ Sucking a dead man’s penis. _

 

_ “Friggin’ in the riggin’, _

_ Friggin’ in the riggin’, _

_ Friggin’ in the riggin’ there was fuck-all else to do!” _

The crowd roared with laughter and cheers as the song continued, each verse detailing the increasingly lewd and debauched acts of the namesake ship’s crew.  After the first chorus, Piper got them all the join in after each verse.  By the end, they were all howling out the words, lifting their mugs.  Sera, delighted by just how filthy the song was, was shrieking.  Bull had to admit he was a little impressed that the holy Daughters of Andraste knew it.

They finished the song with one last round of the chorus, the crowd of the Chargers, Lyra’s dragon-killing team, and various Inquisition soldiers, as rowdy as a riot.  Piper struck the last chord to boisterous cheers and shouting.  Mugs were lifted and drained.

“That was disgusting!” Sera howled, slinging an arm around Piper’s shoulders.  “It was AWESOME!”

“I feel like I need to go pray for forgiveness,” Piper laughed.  “I’m pretty sure I saw Lyra singing along.  The Maker’s gonna strike me down for corrupting the Holy Herald of Andraste!”

“Oh fuck off!” yelled Lyra from the side.  Bull laughed along with them.

Yeah, working for the Inquisition was a damn good gig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember chapter 9? Well, Piper finally sings that dirty song. I disavow all responsibility for this. If you want to listen to it, do so ALONE. Wear headphones, make sure your volume's low, there's no one in the room. It is a terrible, terrible, filthy song.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHEX9EpIL7o
> 
> The guitar song she plays is Malagueña (I love Spanish guitar!). There's a lot of versions of it. The version Piper plays is slightly different from this video, as she adds some flourishes to the beginning, but the basic song's the same.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8B6jOUzBKYc


	29. A Moment in Time

**Prompt: A Moment in Time**

**Word count: 2,883**

* * *

 

Withdrawal was worse than he expected.  He should have known.  But he had felt the edge of withdrawals before— _ Andraste, Maker, someone, anyone help him, he was going to die here surrounded by the scraps and pieces of his brethren, the wreckage of his charges, screams echoing in his ears _ —however blunted he now realized them to be, and had thought himself ready, now that he was choosing voluntarily to stop.  But whatever small symptoms he had suffered while imprisoned by the blood mages were nothing compared to full-blown withdrawal.  The small craving of a fresh-faced templar was nothing compared to the aching  _ need  _ of a decade-long veteran of the Order.  His body had been steeping in lyrium for the last twelve years; taking his philter had been a familiar ritual in his routine.  It should not have surprised him how much the addiction had become, how it was more than just physical, it was mental.

Oh, it hadn’t started particularly bad.  Just jitters, the nagging feeling that he should be doing something right then, that he’d forgotten something, missing the soothing ritual of preparing the draught.  Then it had become headaches, but nothing that disrupted his work.  He was, perhaps, more irritable on those days, but he did his duty.

Then the nightmares started, and the loss of sleep.  Fevers washed through him, leaving him pale or flushed in turns, clammy with cold sweat.  The headaches became worse, raking fire through his mind, effectively crippling him with pain and nausea.  His body ached, a bone-deep pain that fogged his mind and blunted his reaction times.  He was fortunate he was not sent out into the field, as those symptoms could get him killed, if he were caught in an attack with them.

The symptom he hated the most, however, was the tremors.  The days when his hands shook as if palsied, rendering him incapable of even the most simple of tasks.  He could not write.  He could barely eat.  And he could not shave, which perhaps sounded inane, but it made him feel sicker, somehow, to be unkempt.  It made it all… shamefully visible.

Cullen sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his hands, shivering and twitching, curled like dying spiders in his lap.  Already he knew today would be bad.  He felt weak, already nauseous, and knew a headache would soon grip his head in a vice.  He curled over his knees and tried to breathe.

Not for the first time, he considered going down to the apothecary and picking up a healing potion, something to settle his stomach and mute the edge of the aching.  But he dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred to him.  Taking a potion was admitting that he needed it, admitting what he was doing, how he was struggling (if he was honest with himself, it was also a reprieve he did not deserve).  He… couldn’t.  And part of him hated himself even for that, for his blighted pride and inability to admit his shame.

Someone knocked on one of the doors down in his office perfunctorily, and his hands automatically curled into fists to hide the shaking as the door squeaked open, though it was impossible for his visitor to see him up in the loft.

“Commander?” Rylen called.  “Are ye here, ser?”

“Yes,” Cullen called down, grimacing as his voice came out rough and hoarse.  He got up carefully, and descended his ladder.  He had to steady himself against it at the bottom, white spots sparking in front of his eyes.

Finn, who slept in the office since he could hardly climb the ladder to the loft, whined and pressed against him, a warm, comforting bulk.  Cullen’s hand dropped to stroke the dog’s head.

“A bad day, ser?” Rylen asked.  A friend, a brother, and his second, Rylen knew what Cullen was trying to do.  Had guessed, recognizing the symptoms.  The weakness that was every templar’s fear—

_ “Are we running low on lyrium?” Rylen asked, alarmed and confused.  Wearily, Cullen wiped his mouth and eased himself back onto the cot, grimacing at the smell of sweat and sickness in his tent.  “We can all take reduced rations, if it means we aren’t cheating ye out of a dose.” _

_ “No,” Cullen’s throat worked, the words stuck.  “I… don’t take it anymore.” _

_ A long silence, and Cullen glanced up at his friend.  Rylen looked a mixture of horrified and awed.  “Ye mad bastard,” he said, accent thick.  “Why?” _

_ “I...can’t.” Cullen wasn’t sure how to explain it, if he could explain it.  Rylen was one of the sane ones, the reasonable ones.  But that didn’t mean he’d understand just how desperately Cullen wanted to distance himself from it all.  “I can’t.  It’s too much.  They’ve taken too much from me, and I can’t give them any more.” _

_ “So ye’d kill yourself instead?” _

_ “I’m not dead yet,” Cullen smiled wryly at his scoff.  “Seeker Pentaghast knows.  She approves of what I am trying, and is watching me at my behest.  It’s her belief that this is possible.” _

_ “Maker’s hairy bollocks, I fuckin’ hope it’s possible,” Rylen said.  “If ye die, they’ll make  _ me  _ the commander, ye arse.” _

—“Shall I fetch a healer, ser?” Rylen was saying, presently.  There was no censure in his voice, no judgement.  There never was; Rylen might not understand Cullen’s reasons, but he had his back as always.

“No,” he replied.  “That won’t be necessary.  But I am taking the day.”

He made his way creakily over to his desk, feeling twice his age.  “I have the duty rosters written up already.  Let the Lieutenants know their squad assignments.  They’ll report to you for today.”

“Aye, ser.” Rylen accepted the papers, not batting an eye at the tremor in Cullen’s hands.

“Will you also send a runner to Lady Piper to request she take Finn on for the day?”  The mabari whined.  Cullen patted the dog’s heavy shoulder.  “You’ll get bored shut in the office all day, and I’m not carrying you up the ladder.”

Finn grumbled and leaned against Cullen’s shins.  Rylen tapped his chest with a fist in salute.  “Aye, ser.  Anything else I can do, ser?”

“No, thank you Knight-Captain.”  Rylen nodded and obeyed the unspoken dismissal.  The door squeaked again on his way out.  Cullen sighed, petting Finn for a moment as the dog continued to whine in sympathetic distress, and in protest at being sent away.  Cullen murmured quietly to him, soothing and explaining.  Mabari were smart, smart enough to understand simple ideas.  Finn knew he could not get up to the loft, and so could not stay with Cullen today.  But that didn’t mean he liked it.

Cullen let him crowd his legs for the time being, despite nearly tripping over him twice in the two steps it took to get to the other side of his desk.  There were reports there, a stack of them he hadn’t yet reviewed.  Even if he couldn’t write for the tremors, he could still read, as long as the headache held off.  The pain wasn’t so bad as yet; he could get some work done today, at least.

With one last stroke of Finn’s ears, Cullen retreated back up the ladder to his bedroom, sheaf of papers in hand.  He read for a while, reclined on his bed, feeling oddly lazy.  But when the tightness of the burgeoning headache bloomed into sharp, throbbing pain, he was forced to lie flat, arm across his eyes to block as much light as he could.  He breathed, and tried not to be sick.  After an indeterminate amount of time, he fell asleep, the pain essentially knocking him out.

He woke with a start some time later, jerking upright with a sharp inhalation.  Someone gasped in surprise.  “Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Confused, bleary, Cullen blinked rapidly and tried to dredge his mind up from the mire of sleep.  “Lady Piper?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she sounded embarrassed.  She looked embarrassed, as well, once Cullen re-engaged his thoughts and realized that she was standing in the middle of his bedroom.

“How did you get up the ladder?” he asked before he thought about how it would sound.  Almost immediately, he scrambled for words as he scrambled to his feet, very much more awake.  “I mean—!  That wasn’t—I’m—I apologize, my lady, that was unforgivably rude.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she said, blushing to match him.  “As for how I got up the ladder… slowly.  But I managed.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

She cut him off quickly: “I, um, I brought you lunch.  Rylen said you hadn’t eaten, so…” Her words petered out, and she gestured awkwardly to a covered basket sitting on the small wardrobe.

“Lunch?”  Cullen asked.  He knew what she meant, but it was rare that they found some difference between their cultures—so rare that sometimes Cullen forgot that the sisters were foreign at all—and he was always curious when some difference was made obvious, however small.

“Oh, um,” she squinted.  “What do you call it… Dinner?  The noon meal.”

“Dinner,” Cullen confirmed, and smiled slightly.  His headache was gone, and with it the nausea, so he actually felt hungry.  “My thanks, Lady Piper.”

She mumbled something, fidgeting with the strap of her cane.  Cullen search desperately for something to say.  “I… hope it wasn’t an imposition, asking you to take care of Finn?”

Her head jerked up, eyes wide and sincere.  “No, of course not!  I love Finn!”

Cullen ignored the completely foolish pang of envy he felt at that.  “Be that as it may, it was inconsiderate of me to pass him off on you without asking.”

“You weren’t feeling well,” she said.  “I’m not mad at all.  You took care of Rey and Poe when I was convalescing; I can hardly do less.  And it’s not like I do anything that the dogs can’t accompany me.”

“I… appreciate that,” Cullen said, though he still wanted to protest.  He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Are you feeling better at least?” Lady Piper asked shyly.

“I am, my lady, thank you for your concern.”  There was a moment of awkward silence, then Cullen blurted: “Have you eaten?”

“Um,” she said, turning red and pressing her lips together.  He took that to mean she hadn’t.  He lifted the basket of food she’d brought.

“Will you join me, my lady?”

“Oh, um…” Her eyes flicked all around the room, avoiding Cullen, and her cheeks darkened a shade.  Cullen hoped that was a good sign.  “I-I would like that.”

Feeling like perhaps he was not  _ completely  _ inept at this, Cullen nodded.  The feeling vanished like smoke in the wind as he glanced around and realized there was no proper place in the loft for them to eat.  “Ah…”

She seemed to realize the problem as well.  “Maybe… your desk?”

“I’m afraid that will have to suffice,” he said.  “I… Do you… require assistance?”

She eyed the ladder seriously.  “No, but… Maybe you should go first, since it will take me some time.”

Cullen went down with the basket, and found all three mabari patiently waiting in his office.  He gave them quick pats on the head as he strode to his desk to set the basket down, before turning to hover at the foot of the ladder, watching Piper slowly descend one careful rung at a time.  Her lame leg couldn’t hold all her weight, so each time she had to lift her good leg to step down a rung, she used her arms to brace her weight against the ladder.  By the time she was halfway down, her arms were wavering a little.  The dogs whined, and Cullen hovered a little closer to the side of the ladder.

“If I may…?” he said when she was within reach, and put his hands at her waist.  She gasped, one hand flying to his wrist.  He almost flinched back, but some of her weight had fallen on him, so he held himself steady.  “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you.  I thought you would have seen me move next to you.”

“It’s fine,” she said, sounding a little breathless.  “I’d appreciate the help, actually.  I just wasn’t expecting the touch.”

“Forgive me,” Cullen apologized again, reflexively.  “Ah, I’ll lift you down...if you brace yourself against me…”

“Okay,” she whispered, and slowly twisted away from the ladder, her right hand moving to his left shoulder.  More of her weight fell against him as her other hand dropped and she braced herself against his shoulders, her cane, hanging from the strap around her wrist, bumping against him.  Cullen moved away from the ladder and she let her feet slip from the rungs.  She exhaled slowly, staring down at him, her face positively flaming.  He froze momentarily, only now realizing how intimate a hold he had on her.  He quickly set her down, hands lingering until she found her balance.  The dogs pressed close, Rey giving an inquisitive bark.  Cullen jolted back a step.

“I… Dinner?” he suggested weakly.  She nodded rapidly, and he saw, out of the corner of his eye as he turned toward his desk, her hand lift to press against her cheeks.  He ignored it, giving them both the chance to collect themselves.

He set out the contents of the basket as she moved to join him at his desk.  There were a few chairs in his office, for any lengthy meetings he might conduct, and he pulled one over for her to her murmured gratitude.

“So,” she said, clearing her throat as he poured them mugs of cold tea from the flask in the basket.  “How are our forces coming along?”

“Well,” he answered, thankful for the benign topic.  “Recruitment is high, and my officers have been proving themselves competent.  The Iron Bull has also been of great help in training the soldiers.  And the combat mage liaisons have taught the troops much that will be of use when we face the Venatori.”

“Good,” she said, smiling.  She took one of the meat pies and tore it carefully into pieces before passing them down to the dogs at her feet.  Cullen watched a moment, enjoying the image.

“And you, my lady?  How goes your new appointment?  I hear there was some merriment last night at the Rest.”

Her eyes jump up to his, her face inexplicably blanching.  “Oh, y-you weren’t there, were you?”

“Me?  No, I was working.” His brow furrowed as she heaved an obvious sigh of relief.  “My lady?”

“It’s nothing, just glad I didn’t make a fool of myself in front of you.”

He smiled.  “I very much doubt you could do so.”

“I’d take that as a challenge, but there’d really be no way I could win with either outcome,” she said dryly.  “But anyway, to answer your question, it has been going well.  We were celebrating the defeat of the High Dragon last night.  Apparently, Bull really gets into dragon-killing.  We all imbibed perhaps a little too much, and I think I sang some things I’m going to regret introducing to the Chargers.”

Cullen chuckled through a mouthful of bread and meat.  When she smiles in response, it’s easy to ignore all the awkwardness of before, the stumbling and bumbling, because it brought him here, with her.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” he said, giving in the the rare spark of mischief.  “Although, you do still owe me a song…”

“A  _ religious  _ song,” she quipped.  “I remember my promise, and it was to share a song from one of the religions of my homeland.  Not a hideously inappropriate drinking song.  Although, I’m shocked you would suggest such a thing, Commander, for shame—”

He couldn’t help but to laugh again at her teasing scolding.  “I humbly beg your pardon, my lady.”

“—Trying to corrupt a Holy Daughter of Andraste,” she continued piously, putting her hands together and raising her eyes heavenward.  “Wicked man.”

“And what must I do for penance, then, Your Worship?” Cullen asked, scarcely believing his own daring.  She looked up at him, a surprised smile on her lips.  He met her gaze levelly, though he felt his cheeks pink.  Her smile turned a little teasing and she tilted her head in an expression of exaggerated thought.

“Hmm,” she said, tapping her chin.  “What  _ can  _ you do...?  Oh!” 

Her eyes were very bright and very blue as she leaned forward, her body-language causing him to lean in slightly as well.  “I know.  You’ll owe me a song.”

“I… What?” Cullen said, pulling back, startled.  She leaned back, too, smiling smugly.

“I want you to sing me something, too,” she said.  “I heard you in the mountains, after Haven.  You have a nice voice; I’d like to hear you sing more.”

“Oh,” Cullen said stupidly.  “I… Thank you, my lady.  I hadn’t realized…”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want,” she said, frowning a little.  “I’m sorry, I just—”

“No,” he interrupted, trying to smile reassuringly.  “No.  It’s only fair.  We’ll trade songs, then.”

“Okay,” she replied, the corners of her mouth tilting back up again tentatively.  Their eyes caught, held.  “A song for a song.”

“A song for a song,” he echoed.  It felt like a vow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added 'slow burn' to the tags because it's been almost 30 chapters and these two are still being all shy and stuff, whoops.


	30. Game

**Prompt: Game**

**Word count: 1,374**

* * *

“What do you mean, I’m going with you to Halamshiral?”

“I mean that you’re coming with me to Halamshiral.”

“Lyra.”

“Piper.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ouch, sister, that hurts.”  Lyra held up her hands, laughing a little, at the black look Piper gave her.  “Okay, I’ll stop.  But seriously, it’s tactical.  If the Daughters of Andraste show up and charm the court, we’ll have nearly the entirety of Thedas eating out of our hand.”

“I am getting _real_ sick of this holy-figure bullshit,” Piper grumbled.

“I am too, but it is useful… aaaand I sound like Leliana.  Help.”

“Are you sure they wouldn’t settle for just the Herald of Andraste?”  It was probably hopeless, but she’d ask just in case.  Lyra made a face at her.

“Trying to abandon me to the hellscape that is Orlais?”

“Well, you’re trying to drag your poor, non-Herald, introverted, crippled sister to the hellscape that is Orlais, so really I’m not sorry at all.”

“Oh whatever, you wouldn’t be forced to actually mingle.  Just sit around, look pretty, and sing prettier.”

“And _that’s_ supposed to win hearts and change minds?”

“Well, it’ll probably keep you from getting assassinated, at least.”

“Lyra, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m kidding… mostly.”

“ _Lyra_.”

“No, we’ll be fine.  We’ll have guards and stuff with us at all times.  And… I’m putting Cullen with you, he’ll make sure you’re safe.  And you’ll make sure _he_ is safe.”

“What?  How am I—Why wouldn’t Cullen be safe?”

“Orlais… the Game… the whole thing is like one big trigger for his PTSD.  Everyone’ll be wearing masks, acting like friends even while they palm knives.  It’s the sort of beautiful lie that demons are, that demons tell.”

“Then why the hell are you taking him?”

“He needs to be there for the same reason we both need to be there.  The leaders of the Inquisition must show a strong and unified front.  That means all of the capital letters of the Inquisition need to be there: the Daughters, the Commander, the Ambassador, and the Senechal.  Play their Game and win it.”

“You’re really not persuading me, here.”

“I’m sorry.  I know.  I don’t want to go either; this shit makes my skin crawl.  But it’s legitimately the only way to get Orlais to fucking cooperate, so I guess we’re stuck with it.  And really, I’m not willing to take any chances.  We all need to be there, a show of force and a show of unity.  I really don’t think they’ll bother you much; I mean, you’re not really the dangerous one, are you?  Corypheus doesn’t care a whit for you, since you don’t have the Anchor, so he’s not going to send agents after you.  The nobles might needle you a bit, looking for weaknesses, but that’s mostly because they do that to everyone.  I have faith that you’ll be able to fend for yourself.  It’s less dangerous than Therinfal, even.”

“No demons this time?” Piper asked dryly.  Lyra’s mouth quirked.

“Nope.  At least, none that you’ll have to deal with.”

“Ugh,” Piper sighed.  “Fine.  You win, I’ll go with you to Halamshiral.”

“Thank you,” Lyra said, visibly relieved.  “Really, thank you.”

“Yeah yeah.  What exactly am I going to be expected to do?”

“Pretty much literally what I said before: sit around and look pretty, and sing prettier.  Do that thing where you send subtle messages with your songs and deny that you’re doing any such thing.”

“I guess I can do that…”

“You’ll be great; you always are,” Lyra said firmly.  “Anyway, can I also prevail upon you for support regarding the dress uniforms we’re supposed to wear for this thing?”

“I guess?  What do they look like?”

* * *

“Ambassador, I have a pressing problem.”

“Oh?  How can I be of assistance, Lady Piper?”

“I… How can I put this tactfully?  It’s about the dress uniforms.  They’re… Well, they’re the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.  And _red_ ?  Who’s idea was it to standardize our uniforms that color?  When we have two redheads in the Inner Circle, one of whom is the Herald?  Aren’t we trying to be above reproach while we’re in Halamshiral?  Isn’t fashion part of the Game?  If so, we’re losing.   _Desperately_.”

“Well…”

“Literally the only person who might be able to pull off the color and the cut is Cullen, and he’ll still look like a goddamn nutcracker in the thing.  Or Zapp Brannigan.  And I know you don’t know who that is, but believe me when I say _that is not the look we should be going for_.  At least make these things a reasonable color.  Black, maybe.  Or even navy.”

“The uniforms…”

“I think these might actually cause me physical pain.  I admit my personal fashion runs more toward comfort than appearance, but I _did_ spend most of my time appearing on stage professionally.  I know how to use appearance and clothing to influence an audience.  And to be brutally honest, this is not how you do it.  Or rather, this is how you fail at doing it.  Aren’t we going into Halamshiral at a societal disadvantage?  They think we’re upstart heretics?  Well, if we show up in these uniforms, we’re going to be upstart heretics with poor fashion sense.”

Josephine waited a moment, but Piper was finally finished.  “Lady Piper, I admit that the uniforms are… not to current taste; however, it was decided that we should all wear similar outfits to emphasize the unity of the Inquisition.  Red is a holy color within the Chantry, and using it is a deliberate nod to the Herald’s position as the chosen of Andraste.”

“No, see, you’re thinking too obvious.  We don’t need to bludgeon the people with the symbolism hammer, we need to finesse them with suggestion.  Here, look.”  She pulled a rather crumpled piece of parchment from a pouch at her hip, along with a rag-wrapped stick of charcoal.  Smoothing out the paper, she flipped it over side to side, frowning when it proved completely covered in scribbled lines of song.  “May I use a sheet of parchment?”

Josephine silently handed one over from a fresh stack on her desk.  Piper laid it down and bent over it, sweeping her charcoal over it in quick, deft strokes.  A male and a female form began to take shape.  “Here, okay.  Everyone’s going to be glitter and color at Halamshiral, yes?  But the Inquisition, we’re not here for _fun_ , we’re not here to play the Game.  We’re here to remind everyone of the Breach, of Corypheus.  We’re here to stop an assassination.  We should visually call to mind those things.  Dark colors, make us stand out in the crowd, make us ravens.   _Messengers_ , right?  Military style is good, but it can’t be anything close to uniforms you all could recognize.  We have to be our own thing.  Here, we’ll take something from my homeland.  High collars, waistcoat, a long jacket vaguely military… Cut close to the form to flatter, but also move well for function.  And add a half shoulder capelet for drama and fashion.  Make it all blacks and reds and silvers and golds.  Embroider the Inquisition Sword and Flaming Eye on the capelets.”

The rough sketch looked okay, so she flipped it around so Josephine could see it.  The Ambassador was silent a long moment, inspecting the drawing.  Finally, she said: “I will have to bring it to the Council, and the tailors, first.”

Piper grinned.  “You won’t regret it.  Promise.”

Josephine met her eyes.  “You made some good points, regarding what visual message we should be bringing.  And… I must admit I enjoy the aesthetics of your designs better than the originals…”

“That’s because you’re a woman of good taste, Ambassador Montilyet.”

A small smile.  “Thank you, Lady Piper.  I will keep you updated on this matter.”

“Very much appreciated, Ambassador.”

With a last bow, Piper left Josephine’s office.  Almost immediately, Lyra grabbed her and, mindful that they were in the middle of the main hall, said in Swedish: “ _Hur gick det?”_

_“Jättebra!  Jag är fantastisk!”_ Piper grinned toothily.   _“We’re going to Halamshiral dressed like Evie Fucking Frye.  Feel free to bow down before my glorious majesty.”_

Lyra’s mouth opened, then closed, and then she threw her head back and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am continually surprised that Leliana voluntarily wore the formal uniform, what with her love of fashion. The thing looked hideous with her hair color. Clashiest of clashing.
> 
> Swedish translations (Thanks to Linnypants for helping!):  
> Hur gick det: How'd it go?  
> Jättebra! Jag är fantastisk!: Super great! I'm awesome!


	31. Breakfast

**Prompt: Breakfast**

**Word count: 1,233**

* * *

 

Cassandra took a moment from training to sit in the sun and read a few pages of her favorite volume of  _ Swords and Shields _ .  The book was weathered, the binding fraying at the corners and the bottom of the pages were wrinkled from water damage—she’d brought it to the Fallow Mire, where not even the oilcloth of her pack had protected it from the pervading damp.  She’d had to wait days until it dried before she could read it again, and fortunately it hadn’t been too damaged by the water; it was still legible.

_ Amélie reached toward Frederick’s back, wishing to touch, wishing to feel the heat of his body once more.  But she was the Guard Captain, and he a smuggler lord.  They were on opposite sides of the shadow war that raged in the shadowed streets; they could never be together. _

_ “We cannot see each other again,” he said, and she felt her heart break _ — _ the heart that he had stolen, like a purse from her belt. _

_ “I know,” she said.  He turned, his dark eyes running over her body as his hands once had… _

She was just getting to her favorite part, where the Guard Captain and the Smuggler decided they had to ignore their feelings and part, and had one last night of passion… at least until circumstances brought them crashing back together again.  She loved the way they both seemed consumed with love for each other, unable to keep their hands off each other, unable to truly stay away from their love even if it might be the safest thing to do.  Oh, it was magnificent!

Cassandra sighed, and looked up, gazing dreamily at the blue of sky above the ramparts.  Above and behind her, on the wall, Lady Piper was practicing a new piece she had composed.  Cassandra caught a few words and notes as they drifted down into the bailey.  Something about brotherhood and blood.  The notes stopped mid-chorus, and Cassandra reflexively looked up to see what had interrupted her.  She couldn’t help the smile that turned up the corners of her mouth when she caught a glimpse of Cullen’s golden head just over the crenellations.

She turned her smile down at the book in her lap, running her fingers over the worn cover.  She’d only known Cullen for less than a year, but he had become her friend in that time.  And in that time, she had never seen him happier than when he was in Lady Piper’s company.  And even a blind man could see the way the Lady returned his gaze.  It was  _ very  _ romantic.  Cassandra sighed.

“So are  _ they  _ your favorite story, or is it the book in your lap?”

Cassandra leapt to her feet, strangling down a startled yelp.  The Tevinter—Dorian—stood nearby, watching her with a knowing smirk.  “W-what?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Naturally,” he said easily.  “You weren’t just reading that romance serial, and you definitely weren’t just fluttering over the admittedly adorable courtship between our Commander and our Songbird.”

“I—”

“ _ Naturally, _ ” Dorian said with a smirk and a wink.  Cassandra drew herself up stiffly.

“You will not torment them about this.”

He blinked, appearing surprised.  “What?”

Cassandra stepped forward, into his space.  “You will not mock them for this,” she said, low and threatening.  The shock on the Tevinter’s face turned to hurt, then smoothed away.

“Even in Tevinter we have stories of romance.  And they don’t all end with one partner sacrificing the other in blood-magic, either.”  Cassandra felt a jolt of surprise, of guilt, the tension in her draining away.

“That’s not… what I meant,” she said.  “I apologize.  I…”

She straightened herself again, looking at Dorian.  Some of the hurt had faded from his face and he waited, but warily.  “Cullen is my friend, and he has been hurting for a very long time.  If the Lady Piper makes him happy…”

“Ah,” Dorian said, his expression softening entirely.  “Have no fear, dear Seeker.  I may tease, but I know how far not to go.”  A bit of the mischief returned to his face.  “They happen to be  _ my  _ favorite story.”

It was startling, but it shouldn’t have been.  Cassandra knew how much time the mage spent with the sisters, how fondly Lyra spoke of him, how Piper sometimes played for him in the library.  It was unfair of her to think the affection one-sided.  After all, Dorian was here, facing contempt and hatred for his homeland, facing injury and death in his service to the Inquisition.  Cassandra felt her regard for him gentle a little more.  Hesitantly, she offered: “They… are very sweet together, aren’t they?”

Dorian’s moustache twitched in a small smile.  “Absurdly sweet.  And tell me, has our dear Commander always been so blind?”

“What do you mean?”

Dorian rolled his eyes.  “I mean, he completely dismisses the idea that she could return his feelings.  Says she couldn’t possibly want to tie herself to an old soldier.”

“No!” Cassandra gasped.  “But she looks at him with such… such…”

“I know!” Dorian exclaimed, gesturing emphatically.  “But  _ he  _ can’t see it!  And he doesn’t believe me when I tell him.”

“Then you must try harder!” Cassandra said.  “Oh it is so romantic! ... But does  _ she  _ know of his regard for her?”

“As far as I can tell, she’s in denial.  Keeps trying to persuade herself that it’s with guilt and pity he’s looking at her.”

“Oh!” Cassandra exclaimed again.  She clasped  _ Swords and Shields  _ to her chest.  “This is just like the beginning to  _ Chevalier’s Oath _ !”

Dorian’s face twisted.  “Ugh, you read that drivel?”

“It-It’s not drivel!  It is magnificent!”

“No, no,” Dorian scoffed,  “I enjoy ‘throbbing manhoods’ as much as anyone, but  _ Oath  _ takes purple prose to an entirely unnecessary level.  If you want magnificence, you should read  _ Unforgotten Dreams _ .”

“I… that is banned by the Chantry…” Cassandra was horrified to feel her cheeks heat.

“Oh ho!” Dorian hooted.  “And you’ve read it, haven’t you, Seeker?  How  _ scandalous _ !”

“I will admit that  _ Unforgotten Dreams  _ was… dramatic, and…”

“Passionate?”

“Yes.  No!  I…”

He laughed, but it wasn’t a mocking sound.  He just sounded… happy.  “If you liked that, I could suggest a few others…?”

Cassandra hesitated, torn.  On the one hand, she didn’t much relish the idea that someone knew of her… hobby, particularly not Dorian, who seemed as ready to tease her about it as he was to share it with her.  On the other, if  _ Unforgotten Dreams  _ was an indication as to Dorian’s literary taste, he might prove a valuable source of recommendations.  And to have a chance to talk about her books again… It had been a long time since she’d been able to.  Not even Josephine read them; the Ambassador’s tastes ran more toward youths' adventure tales, of all things.  To be honest, Cassandra was more than a little starved for discussion.

“I… I would like that.  And maybe I could suggest some to you?”

“Wonderful,” he said.  “Here, come with me.  I brought some along with my grimoires and histories.”

Cassandra followed after him a little awkwardly.  “Thank you, Dorian.”

“Not at all, dear lady.”

“One thing, however,” she continued, and Dorian paused to turn back to her inquisitively.  She fixed him with a gimlet stare.  “If you tell  _ anyone  _ about this, I will end you.”

The mage simply snickered, and waved her through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refuse to believe that Dorian doesn't read romance novels (canonically he read Swords & Shields!) and also that he isn't kind of a snob about them (he hated S&S). I want him and Cassandra to have a book club.
> 
> The semester has started and I'm teaching a new class, so updates might be less frequent now. More like once a week rather than twice. Sorry for that, but it's kind of necessary. Too much to do, so little time.


	32. Picking Up the Pieces

**Prompt: Picking Up the Pieces**

**Word count: 1,836**

* * *

 

Halamshiral sucked, as Lyra knew it would.  Despite growing support for the Inquisition, the Orlesian court was a place of gilt and daggers, and the Game meant that any perceived weakness or strength would be exploited.  She was very glad that she had played through the events in the game no less than five times (out of curiosity, she’d played the game through as each possible race, and twice as a human to see the difference between a mage and rogue origin).  Thankfully, it didn’t seem as if her and her sister’s actions had changed these particular events from the game’s timeline.  Which wasn’t to say there weren’t changes; she could see several as clear as day: the largest change was that the court was whispering a great deal about how the Inquisition had ended the mage-templar war and reconciled the two sides.  They wondered if the Inquisitor would manage the same with the Orlesian civil war.

She was going to do her damnedest, that was for sure.  Even though Celene was, if not _immoral,_ then definitely _amoral_ , the other choices weren’t terribly viable either.  Gaspard would be a disaster and a half on the throne, with his idiotic determination to ‘unite Orlais through war’.  As emperor, he would lead Orlais and Ferelden into war again, which was truly and completely the _stupidest idea_.  And while Lyra would love to see the position of the elves in Orlais change, she knew how unstable Orlais would be under Briala’s rule.  A coup or civil war was essentially guaranteed, considering how very much Orlesian nobles hated elves.  Perhaps Briala could keep power, but at what cost?  Lyra remembered some of the fan speculation as to what was coming next for Thedas.  Qunari invasions, Solas' revolution, Blights… Things would go to shit fast if one of the powers of southern Thedas was weakening itself with internal squabbling.

No.  If Lyra could, she’d force the three to unite.  If they were so embroiled in their own stupid squabbles to see the real danger, then Lyra was just going to have to _make them_ .  Since they couldn’t solve their own fucking problems and apparently needed someone to mom-scold them, then Lyra was going to chose the solution that _she_ thought was best.  Because of how Orlais was, the choices were limited, but reconciliation had the better outcomes, per the game’s epilogue.  Celene could keep Orlais stable and moderate Gaspard’s warmongering, Gaspard could keep Orlais strong militarily, and Briala could keep them in line from the shadows while slowly and subtly improving elven lives in the empire.  So that’s how things would be, and if they didn’t like it, they could shove it.  It’s not like they had any better ideas.

Lyra stalked through the side rooms that lead to the small garden with the caprice fountain, letting her capelet and long coat tails flare out behind her with gratifying drama.  At least she looked bad-ass through all this bullshit.  Piper was going to get all the hugs, and probably a new instrument, for getting Josephine to agree to a redesign and for ensuring that redesign was more ‘Assassin’s Creed’ than ‘Prince of England’.  Though perhaps she could take some of the credit, for having forced Piper to play the games—for all her clever hands with music, she was surprisingly inept with controllers, but she’d buckled under Lyra’s persuasion and they’d made playing through the series a bonding experience.  Unfortunately, Piper had been gone, on tour with some band as a hired back-up musician, when Lyra had discovered Dragon Age.  It would have been nice to have someone she could check her memory of the timeline against, but Piper had only gotten to hear Lyra talk about the games before… all this happened.

She could heard Piper’s music before she could see her.  When they came into view, she couldn’t help the reflexive smile.  Piper was ensconced on a bench near the center of the garden, a harp, guitar, and flute arrayed in easy reach around her.  Also close to hand was Cullen, who had taken to his task of escorting her to heart.  He was standing, or looming, over Piper’s shoulder, arms crossed, staring down anyone who dared come near.  Lyra smothered the amused smirk that threatened.

Piper had her guitar in her arms, picking out a soft melody.  It was one of her originals, as per her agreement as the Inquisition’s minstrel.  This one was about the mage-templar war, styled as a mage singing to a templar.  It was pretty dark, singing about being trapped in the circle of violence, the war machine, wanting peace but unwilling to bend the knee.  It started with a lament, the sight of the dead, mage and templar both.

 _“Dead our brethren lie,_ _  
_ _In fields of flowers fair.”_

 _  
_ It was probably good the Chantry was in such a state of disarray, or else the song would have them up in arms over the Inquisition even more.  Piper included some references that they wouldn’t like, making the mages sympathetic and hinting at the templar secret that lyrium eventually drove them mad and killed them.  In point of fact, the whole song implied that the Chantry was to blame for the war, having forced both sides into the corners they were now in.  Arguably, it was true.

_“Free my sisters die,_

_The shattered Circle run._

 

_“On your brothers hie,_

_Blue marches them Beyond.”_

Lyra moved closer, catching Cullen’s attention.  He gave her a nod of acknowledgement, which she returned.  She waited until the song was finished before doing anything more, however.  The song ended sadly, with the implied mage singer and templar audience killing each other, despite the questions and doubts and hopes of both.  

_“Dead are you and I,_ _  
_ _Amongst those flowers fair.”_

  
Piper was politely mobbed as she finished playing, nobles and courtiers wanting to make some play in the Game using her.  Lyra drifted closer as they vied for her sister’s attention.

“We are honored to hear a Daughter of Andraste sing for us,” one masked man was saying, in a voice just this side of snide.  “Perhaps later you will also honor us with a dance?”

Lyra’s brow rose.  It was an insult, an attempt to embarrass Piper with her disability, couched in a request that might have, at any other time, been considered an honor as he said.  Behind Piper, Cullen’s face darkened like a thundercloud, but he seemed to restrain himself as Piper tilted her head and widened her eyes.

“Oh,” she said in the innocently confused tone Lyra knew meant she was about to sweetly eviscerate the man.  He had no idea who he was dealing with.  “I’m afraid that I will have to decline.  I’m sorry, I thought that it was well-known… I was injured at the fall of Haven.  My leg.”

Lyra tried not to snicker.  God, she even gave the man a look as if she were embarrassed for him, for his apparently lack of knowledge.  She’d just burned him, implying he wasn’t important enough to have been kept abreast of the latest news, or clever enough to have heard the gossip.  The edge of the man’s face, visible around his mask, reddened dramatically.  He made some reply, a rather poor attempt at saving face, and promptly retreated.  Lyra chose that time to sweep in.

“My lords and ladies, if I could steal my sister and Commander from you a moment?” She gave a practiced smile, one that said ‘I’m not asking, I’m telling’, and gratifyingly, they dispersed.  She turned to Piper.  “How is it going?”

“Everything’s so damn petty and useless here,” Piper muttered sourly.  “I watched someone nearly get socially crucified for wearing last season’s fashion.  It’s like high school on steroids.”

“A complete waste of time,” Cullen muttered in agreement, though he undoubtedly didn’t understand the reference.

“Yeah, well, here we are, having to deal with it,” Lyra said, scowling at them.  She agreed, but this wasn’t very helpful at the moment.

“Sorry,” Piper said.  “But I kind of hate it here.  Can’t wait to get home.”

 _Home.  How strange that it’s become home…_ “Me neither,” Lyra admitted.  “Anyway.  Cullen, I have some tasks for your soldiers.”

He straightened imperceptibly, eyes focusing on her attentively.  “Yes, Inquisitor?”

“I’ve… ah… _secured_ some sources of information and I need you to keep them alive so they can actually provide testimony.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

“Also, I need you to discreetly get your soldiers inside the ballroom and ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

Cullen blinked.  “Yes.  Have you…?”

“I hope to get us home earlier rather than later,” Lyra said with a sharp smile.  “I’m confronting Florianne for her plot to assassinate Celene and frame her brother for it.”

“The Grand Duchess?  Maker, is she working for Corypheus?”

“Looks like.  Anyway, I’m pretty sick of all this, so I’m going to get this show on the road.  Have your men ready.”

“At once, Inquisitor.”  A messenger in Inquisition livery came forward at Cullen’s gesture, as Lyra turned to her sister and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Almost done here, Pips.  Try not to murder anyone before I get back.”

“It’s been a struggle, let me tell you.  The worst part is that they all think they’re being so clever.  It honestly takes a lot of the sting out of their insults.”

“Well, that’s good at least.  I hope you don’t hate me too much for dragging you along.”

“Well, not _too_ much,” Piper said dryly.  Lyra grinned at her.

“Everything will be prepared for you, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, turning back to them as the messenger trotted away, carefully maintaining a calm but swift pace.  Smart.  It wouldn’t do to look harried and suspicious.

“Thank you, Commander.  I’ll take my leave of you then.”  She paused, a thought occurring to her.  “It might be a good idea for the two of you to find yourselves in the ballroom in half an hour.  This might be something you should see yourself, rather than get second-hand.”

It probably would also be some kind of message, overt or subtle, if the thing that Celene saw after escaping death by assassin were a room full of Inquisition.  Something like ‘look at us look at how powerful we are we just saved your life’.  Or whatever.  Halamshiral was always Lyra’s least favorite part of the game.  She would happily tromp through the Hinterlands for twenty-plus hours, but going through Wicked Hearts and Wicked Eyes?  Ugh.  Lyra was more of a straight-forward person.  She didn’t like the backstabbing, power-grabbing, real-life-as-chess kind of politics that typified Orlesian court.  The Game was a horrible thing that left a trail of bodies, most of them unlucky innocents, reaching back centuries.  People died when nobles played, and it disgusted her.  She would be glad to kick the dust of Halamshiral off her heels.

_Just fucking tear Florianne a new one, smack the leadership of the country around a bit,  and then we can go home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up the lyrics in this one. There's no music to go with.


	33. Exploration*

**Prompt: Exploration***

**Word count: 1,983**

* * *

The Inquisition’s cavalcade was large and cumbersome.  With ten carriages, two dozen pack animals, and one hundred twenty soldiers (thirty mounted), it stretched far down the road.  Because the bulk of their number was on-foot, the whole procession wasn’t able to move any faster than a march.  Rather than the swift, efficient travel of a small scouting party, which could make the trip from Halamshiral to Skyhold in just six days, this particular journey would take fourteen.  Fourteen days of marching.

See, this was why Emeric was glad he’d been assigned to Lady Piper’s entourage.  She would climb to the roof of her carriage and play music for her guard complement as they traveled.  It made the boring task a little more enjoyable.  Which wasn’t to say guarding the Lady Inquisitor Herald was bad!  It was just that she had a lot more demands on her, and though she tried to talk to her troops, it often wasn’t much longer than a few sentences before she was called away by one of the Advisors or her companions to deal with something or other.  It was probably why Holy Andraste and the Maker sent her sister with her.  The Lady Inquisitor Herald was tasked with leading them and facing the Rifts and Corypheus.  Lady Piper was tasked with administering to the people.  The two sisters together were exactly what they needed.

_“I saw three ships a-sailing in from across the sea_

_Strangers ne’er were welcome but for curiosity_   
_But come they did and when they did ready they did stand_ _  
_ And things would never be the same in our Village on the Sand…”

The Lady cued them with nod of her head, and a significant number of the soldiers around her joined in with the ‘na na na’s, having been coached in them prior.  Emeric murmured them softly, not willing to ruin the song.  His ma used to say he could drive the Sisters from the Chantry.  It didn’t bother him too much; there wasn’t much call for a soldier to sing, and the Revered Mother always told him growing up that Andraste didn’t mind if he spoke the Chant instead of singing it.

He liked listening to music more than making it, anyway.

  
_“When the ships pulled in to dock the villagers did hide_  
_When trouble came it usually was brought upon the tide_  
_When the pirates disembarked they were making plans_  
_And from then on things were not the same in our Village on the Sand…”_

Emeric stepped to the side to allow a horse by, the scout on its back—Carryn, he thought her name was—giving him a jaunty little wave as she passed back the way they’d come.  At the last river, there hadn’t been a bridge and the water too deep to ford, so they’d had to use the locals’ rafts to ferry everything over.  Since there were only two ferries, and a significant number in their party, the procession had been chopped into small groups, traveling down the road like beads on a string.  Horseback runners traveled between the groups, coordinating and passing information.  Emeric did not envy them the task; it mostly mean they and their horses traveled double the distance anyone else did.  He couldn’t imagine the saddle-sores he’d get if he tried.  But then, he wasn’t a horseman, so maybe if you’re used to it it isn’t too bad.

  
_“The smugglers came into our town and many sought to run_  
_I stood my ground bravely and came face to face with one_  
_Time and travel on the seas weathered face and hand_  
_He was different than the others in my Village on the Sand…_

  
_“He told me of the years he'd spent on the stormy seas_  
_Then he spoke a poet's words of philosophy_  
_And when he had to leave again he asked me for my hand_  
_And I knew I'd never see again my Village on the Sand…”_

Lady Piper finished the song with a short instrumental on her guitar.  Emeric found that his mouth was stretched open in a smile, as were many others’ in the entourage.  It was a lot nicer traveling with music.  It made the miles go by faster, it seemed.  Apparently, many of his comrades agreed, because they called out requests for the next song.  The Lady laughed and sipped water from a skin, eyes twinkling.

She was so nice, and pretty.  It was easy to see why the Commander fancied her.  Oh, but he shouldn’t know that; the Commander tried to be secretive about it.  Emeric wasn’t sure _why_ , but he thought it was probably because she was holy.  You weren’t supposed to covet things that were _holy,_ that was what happened to start the Blights.  Some Tevinter magisters wanted the Golden City for themselves, but they tainted everything instead.  But that wasn’t exactly the same, was it?   _Love_ didn’t taint things, greed did.  And Andraste became the Bride of the Maker.  If anyone could understand loving something holy, it was Her.  Surely she wouldn’t condemn the Commander for loving Her Daughter.

None of the Inquisition did, that was for certain.  There were bets amongst the troops, for when they would actually start courting.  Emeric didn’t put any money down; not only did he not have any to spare for gambling, he didn’t think it was really right to bet on the lives of two noble people like the Commander and the Lady.  But he had to admit he did really want to see them together.  It was like something out of a story.

Something changed, some shift in the air, and Emeric suddenly snapped out of his daydreams and looked to their lieutenant.  Fainne rose up in her stirrups, her Fereldan-gold eyes sharp as a hawk’s.

“Lady, get back in your carriage,” she said suddenly.  Emeric chanced a glance back at Lady Piper, who seemed to have caught the odd feeling and was as solemn and watchful as any of the soldiers.  She nodded once, and reached down to open the door into the carriage and swing herself inside.  Fainne wheeled her horse, drawing her sword.  “The rest of you—”

There was a high whistle of an arrow-flight, and then a horse’s scream.  Fainne went down with her mount, and then chaos descended upon them.

Emeric drew his sword and spun to put his back to the carriage, heart racing.  More arrows rained down on them, and then there was a cacophony of clattering armor as warriors swooped down on them.  Before he knew it, Emeric was crossing swords with a—templar?  Andraste’s mercy, they were Red Templars!

His opponent’s eyes glowed balefully inside his bucket helm, and the hot-metal stench of lyrium wreathed him, tainted with a cloying sweetness.  Emeric gagged, and desperately tried to hold firm even in the face of the unnatural strength of the Red Templar.  He shoved hard against their crossed blades, diverting them left as he slipped his body right.  Disengaging and spinning around the corrupted warrior, he slashed at the weak spot at the back of the armor, just as the Commander and the other former templars in the Inquisition had taught them.  He hit true, but it seemed to hardly phase the man.   _Maker_ , no not a man, it couldn’t be a man anymore.  Instead of bleeding, the cut merely glowed red, like the templar was just skin and armor over a golem of red lyrium.

Emeric tried to choke down his panic, and lifted his sword again as the creature bellowed in rage and charged.

Step, step, parry, lunge…

The ground was torn up and getting muddy from blood.  There were shouts and screams and harsh sounds of metal-on-metal, and Emeric could barely hear any of it over the gasping of his breath.  An arrow from one of their archers hit the Red Templar right in the eye-slit of his helm, and as he reeled, Emeric slashed his throat.  There was no great gout of blood as there would have been for a normal foe, but the creature sank to the ground and stopped moving, which was clear enough.  Emeric turned to find his next opponent.

There were too many of them.

He rushed a knot of fighting, three Reds against one Inquisition, but he was too slow.  Harris went down with a wet gasping sort of gurgle, a blade wedged in his shoulder almost splitting him in half.  Emeric took the opportunity to skewer the Red whose sword it was, before it could pry the weapon from where it was stuck in Harris’s bones.  But there were two others.  One got in a lucky hit, cutting the strap of his tasset.  The armor plate fell to the ground, useless.  Emeric limped back, sword and shield raised in guard position.

Somewhere in the chaos, something gave a grating scream, and the ground shook with some sort of massive impact.  Startled, Emeric couldn’t help but look.

A behemoth lifted its great red lyrium club hands, dripping red with more than just the corrupted crystal.  Its unnatural body was peppered with arrows like a pincushion, and Emeric even saw a broadsword sticking out of its back.  But it was still moving, still killing.

They were going to lose.

Emeric gave a quick thought of prayer, that the other clusters of the Inquisition’s cavalcade were close enough that help would come soon, before it was too late.

He caught a blow on his shield, and pushed that arm forward, throwing off the Red’s balance and stepping forward to press the advantage.  The creature recovered faster than anything he’d ever seen, and he almost lost his head to a wild swing.  Stumbling back, he lifted his shield, trying to block the next…

The blow never fell.  The creature shrieked and jabbed its blade down into something at its feet—a crumpled body in Inquisition green.  Lieutenant Fainne, her legs obviously broken and now a sword piercing her chest.  Her bloody hand fell away from the long knife she’d driven into the Red’s leg, pinning it to the ground.  Emeric dispatched it quickly, and glanced down at his Lieutenant.  She was dying, body broken, blood on her lips.  Her mouth moved…

_“The Lady.”_

Terror gripped Emeric and he spun even as the light faded from Fainne’s eyes.  Lady Piper!  Where—?

He found the carriage a wreck not far away, ringed in Inquisition troops trying valiantly to fight off a host of Red Templars.  No!  They couldn’t let the bastards get the Lady!  They—

Emeric choked, pain flaring through his body.  His head bobbled down and he found himself staring at the point of a sword protruding from his chest.  His mouth opened, but all that came out was blood.

A heavy pressure on his back, as the Red Templar who stabbed him pushed him off its sword.  As if it had been holding him up, Emeric collapsed to his knees.  His sword fell from his nerveless fingers and his mouth moved soundlessly.  His hand rose weakly to explore the edges of the wound.  His blood was so hot, and he was so _cold_.

As he slowly slid down to lay in the bloody dirt, he stared with failing sight at the tableau around the carriage.  The Reds had broken the Inquisition ranks, and one of the mostly-human ones was dragging a struggling Lady Piper out.  Her mouth was open in a shriek of rage and fear, and metal flashed in her hand as she drove her small dagger into the Red Templar’s body.

It just wrenched the blade from her hand, struck her across the face with a gauntlet, and hoisted her limp body over his shoulder.

 _No_ .  Emeric thought in distant horror.  His vision was grey at the edges.   _No, not the Lady._

Scout Emeric’s final thoughts were of the guilt and shame that they had not been able to protect the Daughter of Andraste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, plot deviation!
> 
> The song is "Village on the Sand" by Blackmore's Night. Give it a listen? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZpcIPuLDi0
> 
> Red Templars creep me out you guys. Especially the fact that the really far-gone ones leave corpse-shaped loot like animals, rather than packs like people. Eeechhhh.


	34. Endings

**Prompt: Endings**

**Word count: 1,109**

* * *

Leliana stood straight and solemn, presenting a calm and implacable facade to the rest of the council.  But behind her back, her hands were clenched tight, leather of her gloves creaking.

“My scouts followed the Red Templars’ trail from the site, but lost it when they crossed the marshes at the head of the Elfsblood River.”

Lyra stared blankly at the War Table.  Her eyes were red-rimmed, her shoulders slumped.  After a long pause, she said: “I understand.  Thank you, Leliana.”

To the side, Cullen seemed to break, giving a wordless cry and punching the table with a hard crack.  Josephine gasped, a hand rising to her mouth.  Cullen left his knuckles pressed to the table, bending over it as a tremor washed over his shoulders.  His voice was rough and growling.  “Is there nothing we can do?”

“We can not lose hope.”  Leliana’s voice was soft, and she tried not to feel sad at the way the others looked at her in shock.  But she had not given any of them much reason to believe her prone to such optimism, had she.  “There has been no body found.  Until there is irrefutable evidence that she is dead, we must believe she is alive.”

“Alive and in the hands of the Red Templars,” Cullen said harshly, “of  _ Samson _ .”

“If there is no body, then they took her,” Leliana said, ignoring his angst.  “There can be no other explanation that we have not found her remains—”  _ because if they had killed her they would display the body, like the Darkspawn with King Cailan _ “—so it must be that she is alive.  The question then becomes: Where did they take her?  We have not yet found their base, but it seems likely that is where she would be.  She is a high-profile hostage, and would likely be held by Samson himself.  So, we find the base, which we have needed to do anyway, and we find Piper.”

“Emprise du Lion.”  The Inquisitor was animated now, moving down the table to stare down at the map of Orlais.  “Our scouts sent reports back that there was Red Templar activity there; we haven’t checked it out yet.  Maybe they have Piper there?  Or maybe we can find information…”

“Oh, yes, the smugglers’ notes you found in the Emerald Graves indicated that the quarry at Sahrnia was their main source of red lyrium!” Josephine said.

“When will you leave?” asked Cullen, straightening.  The call to action enlivened him, the planning giving him hope enough to light his eyes.

“Dawn,” Lyra replied, predictably.  It was the soonest they could manage, with the time needed to gather and provision a party.

“Who will you take with you?” Leliana asked.

“If I may, Inquisitor—” Cullen started.

“No,” she interrupted him, but gently.  “I’m sorry, Cullen, but you can’t come with.  I need you here.”

Leliana watched the muscles in his jaw tighten.  His gaze was hard and fierce.  He wanted to go, that much was obvious.  And he wanted to go badly enough that he struggled against the trained instinct to obey Lyra’s word.

“Inquisitor…”

Lyra reached out to lay her hand on Cullen’s fist, resting against the War Table.  “I know,” she said.  “Cullen, I’m sorry.  I  _ know _ .  But you’re the Commander and we need you coordinating our troop movements and training.  We don’t know how long it will take us to investigate Sahrnia; we can’t take you away from your work for who knows how long.”

His eyes closed, then opened, resignation in them.  “I understand.”

“I will take Varric, Dorian, and Blackwall,” she said, her words directed to Leliana, but she didn’t look away from Cullen.  Clearly, she knew of his regard for her sister.  Though Leliana was not certain there was a single soul in Skyhold who did not, besides the woman herself.

“Very well, Inquisitor.  I shall send word to our forward camp at Emprise du Lion to expect your party.  And I’ll have your horses saddled and provisioned at dawn.”

Lyra turned from her wordless conversation with Cullen.  “Thank you, Leliana.  I’ll let my companions know to pack.  If that’s all?”

“I have nothing more, Inquisitor.”

At a glance, Josephine echoed: “I have nothing more.”

Lyra gave a decisive nod.  “Then we’re dismissed.  Cullen, will you stay a moment?”

Leliana followed Josephine out, her sharp ears catching Lyra’s soft words as the door swung shut: “I love her too, Cullen.  And I swear to you, we’ll find her.  We’ll find her and bring her back, and you’ll have the chance to tell her.  This isn’t the end.”

_ Maker willing, I hope you will,  _ Leliana thought as the door shut with a quiet thud.  The blow to the Inquisition if Piper was not recovered would be crippling.  Morale would take a significant hit, though they could perhaps rally the troops behind her as a martyr.

_ Cold,  _ whispered a voice at the back of her mind, sounding like Elissa.  _  Too cold, Leli.  What happened to you? _

“Josie,” she said quietly, “I have my agents looking for any signs of Red Templar activity, but adding our Orlesian allies’ eyes and ears to the watch would broaden my network.  Will you contact them?”

“Of course.” The woman was more flustered than Leliana had ever seen her.  She had not even been this out of sorts after Haven, but perhaps that was because she had still been in shock when the sisters had stumbled down the mountainside.  They had been lost and regained almost before anyone had really processed the scope of the disaster.  This, however… They had all seen the ravaged carriage, the dead soldiers.  And it had been days with no news.

Josephine fluttered to her desk, knocked over her tea cup, dropped her quill, and upset a stack of papers, which wafted down to the floor in a messy shower.

“Ah,  _ joder!”  _ she snapped, dropping to her knees immediately to start collecting them.  Leliana lifted an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic cursing, and bent to help.  A glance at Josephine’s face revealed compressed lips, a knotted brow, and worried eyes.

“We’ll get her back, Josie,” Leliana found herself reassuring her, voice low and soft.  She let out a small sob, but skillfully pressed back the tears, looking up at Leliana with eyes that wavered but did not weep.  

“I simply cannot imagine… That poor woman… She must be so frightened.”

“Whatever else she is, Lady Piper is not weak,” Leliana assured her.  “I am certain she will be alright.”

Josephine sniffled, then nodded, firming up her chin.  “Yes, of course.  She’ll be alright.  We’ll make sure of it.”

“That’s right,” Leliana said.  “We will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joder is fuck en español.


	35. Reflection

**Prompt: Reflection**

**Word count: 1,499**

* * *

 

“You witless idiots were supposed to bring me the Herald!  Not her fucking useless cripple sister!”

Piper woke to an unfamiliar voice shouting in anger, the sick-sweet smell of rotting meat, and a throbbing head.  A rush of cold, prickling fear washed through her as she remembered what had happened.  The slaughter, the creatures that had dragged her from her carriage.

Everyone was dead.  Lieutenant Fianne, Corporals Ridley and Gunnver; Scouts Harris, Cooper, Emeric, Feynassan… She choked off the litany of names, too many, too many…

Tears burned her eyes, escaped through her lashes.

“Finally awake, princess?” sneered the voice that had been yelling.  Piper slowly opened her eyes to look up at him from her prone position on the floor.  She lay on stone, surrounded by the rusted iron bars of a cage that had been dropped over her.

Her captor stood staring down at her, sallow face lit by the glow of the red lyrium fused to his cuirass.  His expression was contemptuous.  She jerked upright, and regretted it immediately as pain spiked through her head and her stomach rolled.  She retched up the only thing in her stomach, a watery bile, in the corner of her cage.  The man tsked.  “Now now… I hope you know I’m not cleaning that up.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Piper groaned, pissed off by his asshole attitude.

“That’s no way to talk to a man who holds your life in his hands,” he chided.  “What am I going to do with you?”

“You could let me go,” she suggested.  “Sounds like you didn’t even want me in the first place.”

He laughed, an unkind sound.  “You have a smart mouth.  Better take care before it gets you in trouble.

“I am Samson, General of the Red Templars, loyal servant to the Ascendant God Corypheus.”

_ Oh fuck _ , said Piper’s mind.  The rest of her rather agreed.  Fortunately, her mouth was smart enough to know when to keep shut, and she didn’t say it aloud.  However, she couldn’t quite school her expression.  Samson smirked nastily at the look on her face.

“You know who I am,” he said, obviously pleased by her fear.  “Good.”

“Yes.  I also know that your master wants the Anchor.  I, obviously, don’t have it.  So, what are you going to do with me?”

“The Inquisitor’s sister,” he mused.  “The  _ Herald’s _ sister, a Daughter of Andraste… Beloved of the Inquisition.  I expect there is not a great deal your people  _ wouldn’t  _ do, to get you back safe and sound.”

Piper was silent.  At the least, it didn’t sound like he was going to kill her off.  Ransom.  She was a hostage.  And the worst of it was: He was right.  She expected that her sister and their friends and allies would try to negotiate for her return.  While she really didn’t want to be left in the Reds’ clutches, she also really didn’t want to find out what deal-with-the-devil would be required for her to go home.  And she very much did not trust this Samson or his Red Templars.  She remembered the attack on Haven, and the attack that led to this situation; the Reds were a terrible and terrifying force.  The corrupt lyrium inside them twisted them in more than just body, it stole their minds so that they became thoughtless beasts.  The more advanced the corruption, the less  _ sentient  _ they were.  They lost the capability of speech, of reason.  They became… like zombies, except a whole  _ hell _ of a lot scarier.  Unthinking monsters of rage, their one instinct to destroy.

Samson crouched down by her, and placed a tiny vial next to the bars.  A health potion.  Well, at least he recognized that leaving her with what was obviously a bad concussion was a bad idea.  Slowly, she reached out to take it.  He let her, watching as she swallowed the bitter stuff.  “I would advise you to be a good girl and behave.  There are many things we can do to you that won’t kill you, and we really only need you to be alive for your bitch sister to ‘save’.”

Anger was simmering hotly in the core of her heart, under the fear and worry, so she looked up to meet his gaze unflinchingly.  There were tiny pricks of red faintly glowing behind his pupils, hints of the red lyrium crystallizing in the depths of his eyes.  “I will be as behaved as a well-trained mabari.”

Samson snorted, and wagged a finger at her.  “Claiming that ‘ _ bitch’  _ comment, eh?  Ha.  There you go with that smart mouth again.”

But he left it at that, confirming that he wasn’t an ounce Fereldan.  Any true Dog Lord would know her words weren’t submission, but threat.  Mabari were loyal and obedient, yes, but only to their chosen master.  You can’t force mabari loyalty, and if you tried you’d lose a limb.  Piper hid the sneer that wanted to curl her lip, and lowered her head as if cowed.

Samson stood.  “Enjoy your stay, messere.”

_ Fuck you _ , she wanted to say, but stayed silent as he walked away.  She took a long look around, cataloguing her surroundings in her mind.  She was in a building with high ceilings and pale grey stone, bare floors and long red tapestries on the walls.  The flaming sword emblem (which, honestly was a little bit of a  _ grim _ symbol) was embroidered on the crimson cloth.  A Templar fort, or something.

That wasn’t the most worrisome feature, though.  What was more distressing was the presence of tall red lyrium spires, growing from… literally everything.  The walls, the ceiling, the floor, anything that couldn’t move had outcroppings of the glowing red mineral (except it  _ wasn’t _ a mineral, was it?  Jesus Christ, and people  _ drank  _ the stuff).  And quite a few of the things that  _ did  _ move—the templars—also had clusters of crystals growing from them, like some nightmare form of tumor.

The air shimmered with the heat the Blighted lyrium gave off, making the twisted forms of the corrupted templars even more nightmarish.  The largest ones seemed torpid outside of combat, hunkering down in corners or the middle of the room and remaining largely motionless, glowing malevolently.  Occasionally, one would shift, producing a rumbling creaking sound like a tiny avalanche.  The more human-like Reds were more active, in as much motion as a normal person, moving around and even talking.

If Piper was honest with herself, they scared her just as much as the lumbering monstrosities did.  They  _ looked  _ human, but they  _ weren’t _ .  And you didn’t realize that until you looked in their faces and saw the red glow of their eyes.  No mere reflection of the red lyrium surrounding them, it was the glow of the stuff growing  _ inside  _ them.  She shuddered at the thought of the crystals growing on their retinas, horrified and disgusted.

They didn’t pay her much attention, fortunately, though she did catch their eyes on her every once in a while.  But, sitting quietly in her cage, she was not of much interest, and Samson had ordered them to leave her be.  And  _ they  _ were unthinkingly obedient, unlike mabari.

She needed to get out of there.  She might not have the vast knowledge of the Dragon Age universe that her sister did, but she’d learned enough to know that an extended stay in close proximity to red lyrium was very bad for one’s health.  She didn’t want to be saved by her sister only to start sprouting her own crystals.

As soon as the thought struck her, she wondered whether that was the plan.  Was Samson making her into a Trojan Horse?  A walking bomb of sorts that would infect Skyhold and the Inquisition with red lyrium?  Oh shit, what if there had been lyrium mixed into that health potion?

Her eyes closed and she tried not to hyperventilate.

_ Shut up,  _ she told her fear.   _ Be calm.  Panic won’t get you out of this cage.  Calm down and start thinking. _

Easier said than done, though.  She could feel the pulse of her heart in her throat, fast and hard and fearful.   _ There couldn’t have been lyrium in the potion, I would have tasted it and it would have… done something.  It’s like a drug, an upper, like meth or something.  It would be affecting me.  But it’s not, so there wasn’t. _

Her eyes opened and she inspected her cage again, more closely.  It was just five-sided—walls and a roof—the floor was just the stone flags of the building itself.  Likely they expected it to stay in place from its weight alone.  There was no door, but the bars were wide-set enough that food or water could be passed through.  There was a smallish pot in the corner that Piper had a horrified suspicion was meant to be her bathroom.  There was nothing else inside, and nothing within arm’s reach outside.

She would have to get creative if she was going to escape.

Piper closed her eyes and  _ thought. _


	36. Failure*

**Prompt: Failure***

**Word count: 1,486**

* * *

The red made him stronger, made it so he didn’t ache after a bout with Tanner in the ring, made it so he could march all day and still have energy enough to fight.  He didn’t have to sleep, and after a while, he didn’t have to eat.  The red filled him, sated his hunger and slaked his thirst.  It thrummed in his blood like a vast river of power.

It was so much better than the blue; such weak stuff the Chantry had given them, a bare measure of strength while they hoarded the lion’s share for themselves, those damn fools.  If the templars had had the red from the start, then none of this would have happened.  There would have been no war, only order.

His skin was beginning to itch again; it must be almost time for his next philter.  Excitement and impatience stabbed through him.  It always felt best right after he took it.  That rush of strength, the feeling of invincibility that shrouded him like armor.  The red burned a little, going down, scalding his mouth and raising sores, but it was small price to pay.  It only hurt briefly, anyway, and then he didn’t feel any pain.  And there was the song… always the song.

He could hear it always, like a whisper at the back of his mind, the sweet voice of Andraste Herself.  It made him ache, like his heart contained the Void itself.  Sometimes he wondered if he could fill that hole if he just drank more; the song was always louder right after his philter, after all.  But templars have died of lyrium overdose just with the weak blue stuff, and General Samson said too much red too fast could also kill them.

He hoped the General would not deny them their philters for punishment.  He’d been so angry when they’d brought back the wrong woman—not the Inquisitor, with her stolen Anchor, but her sister.  Such a failure would have resulted in disciplinary measures before, in the Order.  But Samson kept saying this wasn’t the Order, that the Order and the Chantry had misused and abused the templars, that they had kept the templars from their true destinies, had kept them deliberately weak and blind.  Surely he wouldn’t use the philters against them, not when he hated the Order so for doing just that.

He shifted, his armor creaking, pieces grating against each other.  He should oil it soon; he couldn’t remember the last time he had, and if he left it too long it would start to rust.  He used to be so careful about it, when had he stopped?  He wasn’t sure.  But he would take it off and give a full going-over, once he’d had his philter.

General Samson gave them their doses in the main hall, personally holding the cup for each of them.  Some of the others were also beginning to gather there, their own bodies telling them that it was time.

He found an open space and came to parade rest.  He found his attention captured by the strength of the lyrium song inside the room; huge spars of crystalline mineral jutted from the floor and walls, the air around them seeming to undulate with their singing.  It slid down his spine like fingers, slipped into his ears like quicksilver.  There was an edge to it, something that reminded him of the way it burned in his mouth, hot and acid.  It set the fine hairs at the nape of his neck on end.

Had he always felt so nervous before his philter?  The unease surprised him; he had been a templar for near fifteen years, and every day took the blue.  The red sort wasn’t much different, if stronger…

His eyes cut to a bulk of lyrium nearby, not growing from cold stone but instead pressing outwards from mottled skin.  A brother templar whose body had been augmented by red lyrium.  Larger, stronger than a normal man, such soldiers were invaluable on the battlefield.  And yet… when he looked at him, he felt discomfort… even disgust.  The lyrium crystals glowing between strands of bloodless flesh looked painful, and the oddly proportioned body reminded him of something…

But General Samson said they were Lord Corypheus’s best servants, most loyal knights.   _Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  In their blood the Maker’s will is written._ Templar knighthood was a service, a sacrifice.  Those men and women had made a sacrifice, and he should not judge; his disgust was cowardice.

The thirst was beginning to scratch at his throat, and he shifted impatiently.

The sound of a human woman’s voice humming reached him, briefly drowning out the ethereal song of the lyrium.  He glanced to the side, finding the cage that contained the heretic Herald’s sister.  She was curled around her knees within, eyes closed, singing softly to herself.  He found himself stepping closer to hear.

 

_“I would I were on yonder hill, ‘tis there I’d sit and cry my fill,_

_And every tear would turn a mill… is go dté tú mo mhuirnín slán._

 

_“I’ll sell my rock, I’ll sell my reel, I’ll sell my only spinning wheel,_

_To buy my love a sword of steel… is go dté tú mo mhuirnín slán._

 

 _“Siúil, siúil, siúil a rúin ... siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin_ _  
Siúil go doras agus ealaigh liom ... is go dté tú mo mhuirnín slán.”_

 

Matthias found himself holding his breath, the lyrics bursting in his memory.  His mother, back in Starkhaven, had spoken words like that; an old Planasenic language from the time of Andraste and Maferath, when tribal humans roamed much of southern Thedas.  Hearing them again, he could almost smell the nug-meat bridies his mother used to make.  He’d asked her to make them for the final meal he took with his family before he went to Orlais for his first posting in the Order.

 

 _“I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red, and around the world I'll beg my bread_  
 _Until my parents should wish me dead ... is go dté tú mo mhuirnín slán._  
  
_“I wish, I wish, I wish in vain - I wish I had my heart again,_  
 _And vainly think I'd not complain ... is go dté tú mo mhuirnín slán.”_

 

She glanced up fearfully when his shadow fell over her, falling silent, and her wide blue eyes caught against his.  Maker, she looked like his sister.  Aisling.  She’d had wheat hair and blue eyes, too.  He hadn’t thought of her in years.

Matthias stood staring down at this girl, this woman who sang with his mother’s tongue and who watched him with his sister’s eyes.  Words pressed against the inside of his mouth.

The moment was shattered by the creak of a door opening and General Samson’s voice calling out: “Brothers and sisters!  It is time to drink of the font of strength.”

The templars arrayed around the room moved in ingrained discipline, forming a queue.  Matthias turned away from the woman, paused a moment with the urge to glance back, and took his place in the line.  The cup in Samson’s hands was loud, lyrium song ringing out strident.  Matthias’s heart thrummed with the same cadence.  He waited for his dose.

He could not help the one time he turned his head to catch a glimpse of the girl in the cage.  But her eyes were not on him any longer, fixed instead on the head of the line, Samson with his chalice of lyrium.  Tears streaked her face, which was drawn in lines of grief and horror.  As he watched her, she closed her eyes and turned her face away.

Matthias’s brow furrowed.  What fear did she have of a templar’s philter?  She was no mage.  He did not understand.

But his eyes cut again to the red lyrium golem that had been a templar.  Perhaps…

The templar in front of him stepped away, and Matthias found that he had reached the front of the line and now stood before General Samson.  His body reacted even as his mind continued to churn, his hands covering Samson’s on the cup’s bowl, their joined hands lifting it toward his mouth.

Matthias paused there, briefly.

Samson smiled at him, meeting his gaze with one that glowed red.  “Drink, Brother, and be blessed.”

He had taken his philter all of his adult life.  The red was just like the blue, but stronger.  He needed to be strong to do his duty.

Matthias drank, and the red lyrium scalded the inside of his mouth, a wave of heat that he could trace all the way down his throat to his stomach, where it rushed out through his body in a tingling flood of power.  The song roared in his ears and his mind, washing away any doubts, any thoughts of family.  The lyrium filled him, and then he wasn’t Matthias any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is the traditional Irish folk song; I'm partial to the version sung by Lothlórien: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6AGwOOqijxI


	37. Love

**Prompt: Love**

**Word count: 1,202**

* * *

Solas contemplated the stretch of wall before him, gaze slightly unfocused as he mentally traced lines and color on the plain surface.  This panel should have something to denote their actions in Halamshiral… perhaps the suggestion of shadowed dangers…

“Solas!”

Jolted from his thoughts, he turned toward the Inquisitor as she burst into the rotunda, the door bouncing off the wall behind her as she threw it open and charged in.  Her hair was wild and she was covered in road dust; she must have only just arrived from her mission to Emprise du Lion.  From her demeanor and the absence of Lady Piper, he would guess they had not recovered their missing minstrel.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted.  “I was not aware you had returned.”

“Just now,” she said dismissively, confirming his assumption.  “Listen.  Can you find Piper’s dreams in the Fade?”

He paused.  He’d wondered if she would ask that of him, when the news had come that the Lady had been captured.  It was a logical thought; she knew he could Fadewalk, and if he could speak to Lady Piper in the Fade, he could get an idea of where the Red Templars had taken her.  However…

“I regret that I must reply no, Inquisitor.”

Her eyebrows almost audibly snapped together.  “ _ No _ ?  What do you mean no?”

“I mean that I cannot find your sister’s dreams because she does not have them,” he interrupted before her anger could gain steam.  “Neither of you dream in the Fade, and I therefor cannot find you there.”

She gaped at him unattractively, mouth open and moving soundlessly, eyes wide.  After a moment, she pulled herself together enough to squeak: “We don’t… what?”

Solas patiently explained: “At first I had thought it was just you, perhaps some effect of the mark.  However, when your sister arrived and I was not able to locate her dreams in the Fade either, I had to consider the possibility that it is something inherent in the both of you that means you do not touch the Fade in sleep.”

“How did—Why did—You  _ looked _ ?”  She sounded like she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be angry or not.

“I have checked on all members of the Inquisition.  I thought it prudent to identify any spies or weaknesses before they became problems.  To touch their dreaming minds is the simplest way to do so.”

“I… I guess, but that’s… that’s so…  _ invasive _ ,” she floundered.  He lifted a brow at her.

“There were two Orlesian spies and three Qunari spies hiding among the household staff and our troops.  I informed Nightingale of them, and they have been seen to.  Several mage survivors of Haven had attracted Despair demons that were preying on their nightmares.  I have warded their dreams and they sleep easily now.”

“I…”

“And you were about to request I find your sister in the Fade, were you not?”

“ _ Alright _ ,” she growled.  “I get it.  It’s a tool, it’s the path of least harm sometimes, blah blah.  But surely you can understand how easy it would be to abuse, how there are consent issues if you just do it unbidden, and how people might be upset to know you’ve looked at their dreams.  They’re vulnerable, their inner thoughts and feelings put on display without their control.  How would  _ you  _ feel if you couldn’t control your dreams and you learned that I was watching them?”

Solas considered the question.  It was true that it was difficult to hide secrets in the Fade, particularly when one was not a mage and did not dream lucidly.  It was also true that the thought of his own secrets unconsciously reflected into the Fade made him… uneasy.  He inclined his head, acquiescing to the point, but he didn’t say anything.  He wouldn’t promise not to do it anymore; it was necessary, however questionable.

She sighed, rubbing her eyes wearily.  “This isn’t the conversation I wanted to have.”

“I am sorry that I can’t be more of a help, Inquisitor.”

“If you can’t find Piper, what about the people who took her?  Could you look for Samson or the Reds?”  There was a faint spark of hope again in her eyes.  Solas felt a pang of honest regret.

“No, Inquisitor.  I believe the red lyrium they ingest changes the way they interact with the Veil, and they no longer dream.  I have not found a single corrupted templar in the Fade.”

“Fuck.   _ Fuck _ .”  She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled at her hair.  “Of fucking  _ course  _ it couldn’t be easy.  Nothing in Emprise.  Can’t find her in the Fade.  Can’t find her captors in the Fade.   _ Fuck _ .”

“I am sorry,  _ da’len _ .”  The endearment slipped out unconsciously, and he hid the surprise he felt at himself.  She didn’t seem to notice the elvhen diminutive, however, desperation coloring her voice as she said:

“Wait.  What about Cole?  If Cole can hear her—”

“I imagine Cole would be similarly limited by the presence of red lyrium…” Solas started to say.  Cole, undoubtedly sensing the Inquisitor’s need of him, appeared between them, crouching low to the floor.

“It hurts.   _ Burns _ .  There’s too much red.”

“Cole?” The Inquisitor knelt down beside him, touching his shoulder worriedly.

“He feels emotions as vibrations in the Veil, and red lyrium twists the Veil.  I expect he can’t hear anything from Lady Piper, if she’s in Red Templar hands.  That much red lyrium around her would drown out any ripples she makes in the Veil.”  Solas finished his thought.  She bites her lip, looking torn.

“Could he… could he sense  _ where  _ they are?”

Under her arm, Cole shivered and whispered more rapidly: “Heat, burning, _it’s_ _so angry_.”

She immediately shushing him, drawing a hand comfortingly down his curved spine.  “No, Cole, stop, it’s okay.  You don’t have to look anymore.  It’s hurting you, stop.”

He tilted his head so he could look up at her from under the brim of his hat.  “But I want to help.”

“You can help,” she assured him.  “Just… not like that.”

“Daggers to guard my back, careful and steady.  Yes.  I can help.”  Thus reassured, he vanished once again.  Still kneeling, the Inquisitor sighed and seemed to wilt.

“I’m sorry, Solas,” she said after a moment, voice soft.  “I came to ask for your help and ended up lecturing you self-righteously.”

He turned thoughtful eyes to her.  “You weren’t wrong, Inquisitor.  My Fadewalking can be an invasion of privacy. However, in these situations, it is a tool that cannot be set aside merely because it is uncomfortable.  I  _ am _ sorry that it cannot help you find your sister.”

She took a breath like she was going to argue, but then just let it out wearily.  “I’ll find her, one way or the other.  This would have been the easiest, but it’s not the only.”

Solas nodded, and watched her as she gestured a goodbye and stalked away.  He had to admit, for all that she was naive in letting her principles limit her so much, it was admirable how the depth of love she felt for her sister was giving her such strength of purpose.  He hoped she would not lose that strength, should the worst come to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A double update this week! I managed to write a few chapters this past week, so I have enough buffer that I'm comfortable posting twice, as I had been doing before. I don't know how long I will be able to keep it up, but what I think I'm going to promise is: 1) a chapter on Monday every week, 2) a chapter on Thursdays whenever my buffer allows. So there will be a dependable update every week, and an occasional bonus on weeks my muse has been good to me.


	38. Advantage

**Prompt: Advantage**

**Word count: 1,169**

* * *

 

Sometimes, he forgot that the woman was there.  She had taken his warnings to heart, it seemed, and caused no problems.  She was quiet and obedient, waited patiently for her food and water, did not cause problems for Maddox when he let her out of the cage to take her to wash.  It wasn’t terribly surprising that she didn’t try to escape; by all accounts, she didn’t know how to fight, and even if she did, her limp significantly curtailed any possibility of running.  She did not appear to be stupid, or reckless.  It seemed as if she’d also realized how futile any escape attempt would be.

Still, he had expected some show of resistance.  He’d seen a spark in her eyes—half hidden by fear, yes, but present all the same.  He’d expected small rebellions, at the least.  His threat early on had probably kept her from any outright obstinance, but there were many different subtle ways of protesting; he’d certainly seen many of them from mages in the Circles.  Perhaps she had not thought of them, being someone who had never dealt with imprisonment before.

Or perhaps she was biding her time.

If Samson had learned anything from his tenure as a templar, it was to trust no one.  Perhaps she was behaving for now, but he didn’t trust her.  Which was why, when Maddox informed him that the woman had asked for a cot to sleep on, he was immediately suspicious.  He went to talk to her, to assess.

She looked at him with a sort of nervous fear, and he capitalized on it, keeping eye-contact and letting the silence between them grow taut as he watched her.

“You want a cot,” he said finally.  “Why?”

“I… My leg,” she stammered.  “Sleeping on the ground, it… And walking without a crutch… Since I can’t feel my leg, I have trouble knowing when I’m hurting it, and I have.  My joints have swollen, and my knee…  If nothing changes, I’m not going to be able to stand, let alone walk.  Since you expect me to clean out my own chamber pot, and bath in the spring outside…”

Samson watched her, glancing down at the limb, which she’d stretched out in front of her.  She looked sincere, he supposed, fear of him and worry for herself clear on her face.  He gestured: “Put your leg through the bars.”

She hesitated, which was really unsurprising.  He gestured again, impatiently.  “Come on.  I’m not going to chop it off.”

Moving slowly, she slipped the leg through the bars of her cage, the motion and the bars causing her skirts to bunch up and bare the limb.  The joints did look swollen, particularly the knee.  Samson pulled his gloves off and prodded at the joint, causing the woman to flinch violently in surprise and pain.  He snapped at her to stay still, feeling along the muscles, tendons, and ligaments.  She was right, damn her; the knee was inflamed and likely painful; he’d learned to identify such injuries as a templar, when he’d helped train recruits, briefly, in Kirkwall.

He let her pull her leg back in and resettle her skirts around her as he thought.  He could just dose her with elfroot, but if the cause of the problem was not addressed, the inflammation and pain would return, and he’d end up having to dose her every day, which would make her ill.  Getting her that cot would likely be the best action.

He scowled.  “Very well.  I’ll have Maddox get you a cot.”

She let out a ragged breath, and relief flashed across her face.  “Thank you.”

He grunted irritably, though her voice was properly sincere and cowed.  “Do not think to take advantage of my charity.”

She swallowed visibly, and shook her head.  Samson stood and left her.  He’d need to speak with Maddox sooner rather than later; Lord Corypheus wanted him to take a squadron of Red Templars to investigate some dwarven ruins in the Hissing Wastes.  So many of the Reds were far enough along in their conversions that they were unsuited for work delegation, and Samson had to admit he did not fully trust the Venatori attaché that had been sent to help him oversee and manage the lyrium-addled soldiers.  Most of his time would be spent hands-on preparing the squadron for the mission.

But Maddox was trustworthy.  Of course he was, he was a Tranquil; it would not occur to him to disobey, and his mind was free of anything that might distract him from the tasks he was given.  Care of the woman had been given to Maddox from the start; it was safest.  The Reds often forgot the small mortal things like eating and bathing, and could not be trusted to keep her alive.  The Venatori wanted to use her for some second purpose; the blood of a Daughter of Andraste was a tempting substance for experimentation.  Considering he wished to keep her alive and moderately unharmed for ransom, they were not a good choice, either.

While Maddox was a simple creature in some ways—being unable to understand the reason for deception, he had little understanding of lies and could never tell when someone was lying to him—his mind was sharp, and obviously emotional manipulation did not work on him.  As a prison guard, he worked quite well.

Maddox’s workshop was in an alcove of one of the hallways branching off the main hall.  The Tranquil was bent close to a shard of red lyrium on his benchtop, a magnifying piece held to one eye.

“Maddox,” Samson said, and the man straightened.

“Ser Samson,” he said in monotone.  “Do you require something?”

“Yes, Maddox, I have a task for you.  I need you to take a cot from the barracks and put it in the prisoner’s cage.”  None of the Red Templars slept anymore, so there were many to choose from.  “As well, I need you to continue seeing to her food, water, bathing, and general health.”

“Of course, Ser Samson.  I will see to it.”

“Thank you, Maddox,” Samson said.  He cast his eyes around the alcove.  “Do you have everything you need, Maddox?  It will be some time before I am back.”

“I will need more red lyrium soon.  I have not identified a treatment that will decrease the brittle nature of the crystal, but there are still more to test.”

“I will have more brought to you.  Thank you, Maddox.  Your research is very helpful.  Have the gloves helped with the burns?”  The red lyrium caused contact-burns when handled with bare skin, which necessitated the acquisition of flexible, tailored gloves of supple nug-hide to keep the Tranquil’s hands from injury.

“Yes.  They have greatly increased my productivity,” Maddox replied.

“Good,” Samson said.  “I will be back in a month.  If necessary, send a crow.”

“Of course, Ser Samson.”  Maddox turned back to his workbench, the discussion over and any pleasantries lost to his Tranquil mind.  Samson left to his own work.


	39. Heartfelt Apology

**Prompt: Heartfelt Apology**

**Word count: 1,084**

* * *

 

Piper waited two weeks before she even considered making a move.  Samson had gone, taking with him a significant number of the Red Templars and Venatori that had been at the base.  With the number of ‘jailors’ thus decreased, there would likely be no better chance.  Although… all the activity of the big group moving out had roused everyone into a high-state of alertness, and she suspected Samson had warned Maddox, the man who saw to most of her needs, to watch her carefully after being given the cot.

Fair enough; she  _ did  _ intend to use the thing in her escape.

Waiting for two weeks, however, had decreased, at least a little, the level of alert.  Maddox was still quite watchful, which she guessed was due to his Tranquility; he obeyed orders to the letter and didn’t get bored or distracted.  However, he could not watch her at all times.  He had other tasks in the base, and sometimes Piper was left alone for hours.

Waiting had also allowed her leg to heal up, mostly.  It was still tender, and of course she still had the problem of her leg’s lameness, but she was more or less in a decent shape for an escape attempt.

No, not attempt.  An escape, full stop.  She’d  _ succeed,  _ dammit.  She had to; she didn’t expect a heartfelt apology would keep her captors from making her pay for an attempt, if they caught her.

She bided her time, being careful not to set off any alarms by appearing too interested in the comings and goings of the remaining soldiers, or by trying to hoard food.  She was confident enough in her survival skills that she expected to be able to live off the land, at least until she found allies or friendlies who could help her get back to the Inquisition.

To be honest, she wasn’t sure she’d be so willing to escape if she didn’t have all those survival skills under her belt.  Once they noticed she was gone, they’d follow, and the only reason she knew how to hide a trail was because she knew how to  _ track _ .  Also, she didn’t know where she was, but knowing how to determine her direction made that less of a concern.  Because she’d been outside to empty and rinse her chamberpot, and to bathe herself in the spring, she knew that they were somewhere chilly, and could plan what to do to survive the cold after escaping.

She was as prepared to escape as she’d ever be, and she wouldn’t get a better chance.

Piper waited, being sure not to act any different than she had for the last couple weeks, raising no alarms.  She was given her evening meal, ate it, returned the bowl, spoon, and mug to Maddox.  As the sun set, she crawled onto the cot they’d given her at her request, and settled in as if to sleep.  Maddox left the main hall, returning to where ever he spent his time when not tending to her.  The spare handful of Red Templars settled down where they were, motionless statues of flesh and lyrium.

Piper waited.

A couple hours passed.

Nothing stirred in the base.

Finally, quietly and carefully, Piper slipped from the cot.  It honestly was more of a bench, but she would hardly complain; that made it even more suitable for her purposes than if it had been a true cot.  A board with wide, stubby legs nailed to either end.  Terrible for sleeping on, but perfect for her plans.

It took some doing, but she was able to wrench off one of the legs; the other three were much more stably attached and didn’t budge.  She would have preferred getting at least one more off, if not all, but it would have to do.  Turning the bench-cot over, she wedged one short edge under her cage, where the uneven stone floor had left a gap.  Her chamberpot got repurposed and placed under the long board as a fulcrum.   _ Et violà _ .  A lever.

Carefully, but firmly, pushing down on the free end resulted in the cage scraping slightly across the stone, before lifting up a half inch.  Piper froze, glancing around and panting a little from the effort required to, even with leverage, lift the large metal cage.  It didn’t seem as if any of the Red Templars registered the sound as anything important.  They remained still and quietly glowing.

Piper let out a very soft grunt of exertion as she shoved the lever  _ down _ , hoisting the cage  _ up _ .  One wary eye kept on the Reds, one carefully measuring the gap between cage and floor.  Once she thought it was high enough, she very carefully nudged the leg she’d pried off the bed under the metal frame of the cage with her toe.  Then, just as carefully, she eased the structure back down until it rested on the chunk of wood.

There was nothing in the erstwhile prison she wanted or needed, so she slipped down to wiggle out under the propped-up cage.  There was a tense moment when she feared she’d either get stuck at the swell of her ass, or accidently knock out the strut with her wiggling, crushing herself under the whole thing.

On the other side of the bars, she sat up, breathing a silent sigh of relief.  Then, all at once, giddy exaltation washed through her, and she fought back a jubilant whoop.

Too early to celebrate.  First she needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

The first test was whether the Reds would realize what was happening.  How much did they understand, anyway?  Did they realize she was a prisoner?  Did they realize what that  _ meant _ ?  Would they raise an alarm now that she was out of her cage?

Apparently not.  None of the world’s creepiest golems so much as moved as she limped quickly past them to the door.

Holy shit, she might actually make it.  If she could keep herself together, be smart about all this, she might actually manage to escape.

Piper reached the door, and pulled it open with a quick mental prayer to any benevolent force that it would  _ not  _ creak.  A soft groan came from the hinges, making her wince and freeze…

...But no response came.  Piper let out her breath, and eased through the door.  Just before she disappeared into the dark night beyond, she turned and flipped a double bird at the red lyrium-encrusted room.

_ Fuck this shit, I’m out! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piper is a self-rescuing princess.


	40. Eternity

**Prompt: Eternity**

**Word count: 1,177**

* * *

 

The Herald had been grim and dutiful, when they’d first met.  It had taken a few days for her guard to relax and the tense, hunted hunch to her shoulders to go away.  When it had, she had revealed a wry sense of humor and a sharp wit.  Then, when her sister had appeared, she’d revealed the full brightness of her character.  His choice of nickname for her was not ironic, not like Chuckles.  She’d truly been ‘Sunshine’.

But the name certainly seemed ironic now.  The ransom of Birdie had sucked a lot of the sparkle out of her, bleeding the life and joy out of her as the days continued to pass with no leads.  All of the advisors—even Curly, to some surprise—had agreed that they would not negotiate for Piper’s release; whatever Samson and the Reds wanted, they could not give, not even in trade for the life of a Daughter of Andraste.  It was agreed that they would get Piper back with force, not by dealing with the Reds.  The ransom note that had come a few days after she had been taken was left unanswered, and efforts to locate Red Templar bases were doubled.  But no leads had been found, and as time passed their chances of finding Piper alive dwindled.  The Inquisitor wore down, became discouraged, worried that they had made the wrong choice.

Now, she was grim and angry.  Some hardness, coldness, that had not been present before had set up walls behind her eyes.  She was like an entirely different person.  Varric knew he wasn’t just imagining things; all of the inner circle saw it, too.  It was obvious in the careful way they spoke to her, the way they traded glances with each other behind her back.

Varric watched with concern as the Inquisitor practice throwing daggers at the pells that had been set up in camp.  She’d persuaded Sera and Scout Harding to help her learn, gritting out that she wanted to know how to protect herself when cautiously asked if she really wanted to learn—she had been so resistant to learning, before, adamant that she would not learn violence.

It was definitely not the case now, as she hurled knives at the pells with a coldly pleased expression at each strike.  She was actually very good at it, a fact that was just as frightening as the speed with which she’d attained that level of skill.  Varric was worried.  Worried she was going to end up doing something she’d regret later.  She was too good too fast, her aptitude leaving no buffer of time for her to reconsider, for her emotions to settle.  She wanted to fight, wanted revenge maybe, and now she had the tools for it.

He glanced toward the Iron Bull, who was off to the side, also watching, his face perfectly expressionless.  And yet, Varric could tell he was also worried.  As a Ben-Hassrath, he had to be seeing the warning signs, too.

Varric waited nervously for her to retrieve her daggers—wincing as she wrenched them from the pells with significant violence—a letter clenched in one hand.  “Inquisitor?”

She turned to him, lips pressed thin and unsmiling.  He lifted the letter.  “From Hawke.”

Her face became grimmer, if possible, but she took the letter and unfolded it.  Varric waited, knowing what it said:

_ Varric, _

_ There’s been a lot of activity at Adamant Fortress.  Large numbers of Wardens have been coming and going, bringing with them a lot of wagons of supplies of a worrying nature.  Something big is going to happen, and it’s going to happen soon.  Better tell the Inquisitor to get here, fast. _

_ Hawke _

It felt like an eternity before she spoke, far longer than really should have taken her to read the short missive.  Varric sternly kept himself from fidgeting, wondering if she could read the tone of the letter as well as he could.  Was it only by virtue of long association and close friendship that he could tell how worried Hawke was from his terse sentences?

The Inquisitor let out a sigh that was almost a growl, squinting toward the horizon with a scowl.  Her hand clenched around the paper, the fist going to her hip as her other hand dragged through her hair.  “Fuck.”

Varric silently agreed.

After a long moment, she turned to him.  “Okay.  Send Hawke a reply.  We’ll head to the Western Approach after we resupply and send a bird to Skyhold.”

“Sure,” he said.  She gave him a nod and turned to go.  “Hey, Sunshine.  It’ll work out.  Everything’ll be fine.”

At first, her expression remained cold and closed off, but after a moment, her eyes softened slightly and she inclined her head toward him.  “I wish I could be as optimistic, but thank you, Varric.”

She turned and stalked toward the Requisition Officer before he could respond.  Varric cursed under his breath.

“She’s going to hurt herself,” Bull’s voice rumbled suddenly from beside him.  Varric fought not to jump.

“Maker’s balls!  You move a lot more silently than you have any right to,” Varric cursed.  Bull huffed with weak humor, his lone eye still casting a worried look in the direction of Sunshine.  “What do you mean, hurt herself?”

“Not intentionally or anything,” Bull said, keeping his voice low.  “But she’s on a very self-destructive path.”

So he wasn’t the only one to see it; good.  He grunted.  “So what do we do about it?”

“We watch her back.”

Varric waited, brows raised, then asked: “What, that’s it?”

“Nothing much more we can do,” Bull grunted, crossing his arms over his chest.  “She wouldn’t take kindly to anyone telling her to calm down, and if we take away the knife throwing, we’d be taking away a very valuable release for her.  It helps her work out her frustration and anger; if we made her stop, all that would just build up in her and make things worse.”

He wasn’t so certain.  “So, she’s on a path of self-destruction, but all we should do is watch her walk down it?”

“I never said that,” Bull said.  “But right now, she’s determined to walk it, and if we try to stop her, it might drive her even further down that road.”

“She’s going to end up killing someone,” Varric warned.  “And it might break her.”

“And that’s why I said we need to have her back.”

Varric harrumphed, suspecting that the Qunari was right, but not liking the idea of simply watching Sunshine hurt herself and not doing anything to stop it.

Speaking of…

“I want to wait for Leliana’s bird before we go,” Lyra said briskly.  “It’ll probably be a couple days.  In the meantime, we can fill some of the requisitions for herbs and ore.  We can always use more elfroot.” 

“Sure thing, boss,” Bull rumbled, as Varric nodded.

“Great,” she said, but her expression remained grim and her voice flat.  Bull and Varric shared a look as she turned and stalked away to collect Solas, an unspoken pact in their eyes.


	41. Only Human

**Prompt: Only Human**

**Word count: 1,046**

* * *

 

Doubts dogged him.

He wondered if the failures of the Inquisition were from his own ineptitude, his poor performance as Commander.  Did he under-utilize his soldiers?  Did he set squads to tasks that they were not suited for?  Were his soldiers under-trained?  Were the tactics he taught them poor?  Was he not qualified for this job?  Was he just getting people killed?

Would he do better if he was taking lyrium?  If he could sleep through the night, would it improve his performance?

If he took lyrium, would it give him the strength to save Lady Piper?  Would lifting the haze of pain and addiction from his mind make him sharper?  Would he figure out where she was being held?

Should they have refused to deal with Samson?  How could they have left the note unanswered, quite possibly consigning her to death?   _Her_ , a Daughter of Andraste.  A kind and compassionate woman that they have left to die at the hands of the Red Templars.

Cullen’s jaw tightened, which only worsened his headache.  He glared down at the report on his desk, blood hot with impotent rage.  He had agreed with Leliana’s assessment; the Inquisition could not parley with the Red Templars, both on principle and because they could never trust the word of Corypheus’s soldiers.  But that did not mean it sat easy with him.  He _hated_ that they knew Samson had her but could not act.  Without knowing where the Red Templars were keeping her, they could not save her.

Was it his fate to fail, consistently, in his attempts to protect people?  Kinloch had fallen, his comrades and his charges dying painfully, bloodily, despite all his training, despite all the _promise_ his superiors always said he showed.  Then in Kirkwall, he’d ignored the ones who’d really needed his shield, instead jumping at shadows, making victims of the innocent even as he claimed to protect them.  And now, the failures continue.  He’d failed at Haven; he’d failed to keep the Daughters safe then, and he hadn’t even learned from that lesson, since now Lady Piper was gone.  Taken from them even though Cullen had set a squad of soldiers to guard her.

Regret and self-loathing closed like a fist around his ribs, choking his breath and squeezing his heart.

Why was he _here_?  Why did he even bother?  Surely there was someone else who would do a better job than the mess he was making.  Cassandra, for all she scoffed any time he suggested it.  Rylen, Cullen’s senior in experience if not in rank.  Even the Iron Bull was more suited, if only he wasn’t a Qunari spy.

Cullen glared at his stacks of papers, then stood and stalked over to his bookshelves, eyes raking the volumes but not really seeing them.  His restless feet took him to the window and he squinted out at the noon-day brightness reflected from the snow-covered mountains outside.  Wheeling again, he stalked back to his desk and pulled out a drawer.

He hesitated, then reached in, his knuckles brushing the small wooden box inside.  His hand closed around the small tin cylinder next to his lyrium kit, and pulled it out.  The pennywhistle looked so fragile in his broad hands.

He’d taken it from Lady Piper’s instrument stand a week after she’d been captured, wanting—needing—some kind of touchstone.  Sometimes it was that.  But sometimes, he looked at it and it was like staring his failures in the face.

It felt a bit like that now, as he stared down at it and regret knotted his throat.  He wondered what song she would have sung for him; she’d promised something from her people’s religion, and he could hardly guess what it would have sounded like, what the words would have been.  He wondered what he would have sung for her.  He had considered it more often than was probably appropriate, dreaming sometimes while he should have been working, thinking of songs and what her response to them might have been.

There were two he thought of, depending on what sort of reaction he wished to pull from her.  “O Maker, Hear My Cry” to give her the most beautiful parts of the Chant… and “Andraste’s Mabari” if he should want to give her something to make her smile.

Slowly, he set the pennywhistle to his mouth and played a few faltering notes.  The last time he’d played had been in his boyhood, accompanying the children’s choir in Honnleath’s tiny barn-turned-Chantry.  The sisters had had three whistles, the parts traded between the older boys, whose undependable voices warbled with the onset of manhood.  Cullen had only played briefly before he went to the Order, and that unfamiliarity now translated to a hesitant, squeaking tone.

He lowered the instrument and turned it over in his hands, imagining Lady Piper’s thinner, more elegant hands on the whistle.  She had been so clever with it, with all her instruments.  She’d lived and breathed music, and the people had loved her for it.  Loved both her and the Inquisitor for their lovely voices.  Some took their musicality as a sign of the truth of the moniker ‘Daughters of Andraste’.  After all, it had been Andraste’s song which had filled the Maker’s heart with love for her.

As devout as Cullen was, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.  Not for any fear of heresy, but simply because… if she wasn’t really the daughter of Andraste… if she was simply a human woman… then he might still dream of a place at her side.  He might still hope, without fear that he covets something holy, something so far beyond his sinner’s reach.

But now he found himself torn.  At least, if she _were_ holy, beloved of Andraste and the Maker, she would have that divine protection as she lay at the heart of Corypheus’s Red Templar Order.  If she was only human, then she was in greater danger.  Then the question of ‘would they get her back’ was more pressing, answer uncertain.

Cullen closed his eyes, thought a brief prayer.   _Maker, keep her in your heart.  Set your shield before her and keep her safe.  Please, let her return to us, whole and hale._

It slipped in, a tiny whisper, a plea: _I love her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well jeez, Cullen, about time you admitted it.


	42. Everyday Magic*

**Prompt: Everyday Magic***

**Word count: 1,821**

* * *

_“I walked ten thousand miles, ten thousand miles to see you,_

_And every gasp of breath I grabbed at just to find you._

_I climbed up every hill to get to you._

_I wandered ancient lands to hold just you.”_

Piper sang softly to herself as she walked, trying to make the miles shorter and take her mind off the aches in her body.  She’d found a good walking stick about a day into her escape, and that helped, but it certainly wasn’t enough to offset her handicap.  She moved slower than she would have liked.  However, she was also clever about when and how she moved.  It had been a couple days and she had not been caught.  She hadn’t even seen pursuers.  She was taking that as a good sign.

_“And every single step of the way, I pay,_

_Every single night and day,_

_I searched for you._

_Through sandstorms and hazy dawns I reached for you.”_

She did, however, wish she had her cold-weather survival kit, the backpack she’d brought with her from Earth, which unfortunately lay buried along with the rest of Haven.   The GPS and smartphone would have been useless bricks, but all those firestarting tools, and her space blanket…  She wasn’t in the Frostbacks, yet, but she could tell things were going to get dicey the closer she got to the mountains.  It already got pretty cold at night, and a chill bite was sneaking into her days as well.

It was frustrating that she hadn’t even come across a farmstead out here.  Apparently, where-ever Samson was housing his troops was in the middle of freaking nowhere.  And of course she had to _walk_ to Skyhold from there.  Well, okay, maybe that was a little bit of an exaggeration; she’d have to come across some sign of civilization at some point before then.  But she was getting very tired of walking, and with her leg she was pretty much in constant pain.  Her hips ached from the odd hitch the lame limb put in her step, and that in turn made her back ache.  And her feet ached because apparently nobody in Thedas had heard of arch support.

Piper squinted at the sun, gauging its distance from the horizon.  She’d probably have to stop soon, and find somewhere to hole up for the night.

Sighing, she patted her pockets, and pulled out a twisted knob of elfroot and some small half-ripe apples.  Thank god there were plants here that had Earth analogs.  She only recognized elfroot from the many native Thedosian plants, and it wasn’t fit for a meal.  It was _edible_ , but wouldn’t stave off starvation.  Not that three small apples would help that much, but they were better than nothing.

Piper sighed again, and put the fruits back into her pockets.  As she continued to walk, her eyes flicked around, seeking out forage as well as shelter for the night.  Unfortunately, the foothills at this part of the Frostbacks seemed to be particularly rocky; both were in short supply.  But there was a copse of trees up ahead; it was probably the best shelter she’d find without walking another couple hours, and maybe she’d get lucky and one of the trees had fruit.

 _Yeah, go ahead and be optimistic. It’s worked so well before,_ she thought to herself sarcastically.

Predictably, the trees were maples.  Piper heaved sigh number five-billion, and ate her pocket apples.  She also nibbled a little from the elfroot, to take the edge off her aches, and then started piling up the fallen leaves.  There was a nice little hollow between the trees that had caught a pile, and fortunately it seemed it had been dry in the area for some time and the leaves weren’t wet or moldy.  Perfect for a debris shelter.

Piper made the shelter deliberately small, so that she had to squeeze herself into the shelter and then lie curled up, as her body heat would warm the smaller area better than larger one.  Curled, chilly hands stuffed into her armpits, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.  It was difficult.  She was hungry, thirsty, cold, and everything hurt.

 _But I’m free.  I’m not a lyrium farm.  It could be worse._ Still, it was very hard not to think about Skyhold and her warm bed, and her sister, and Dorian, and Cole and all her other friends.

And Cullen.

_“I’m tired and I’m weak, but I’m strong for you,_

_I wanna go home, but my love gets me through…”_

She sang the last verse of that evening’s walking song, so quietly it was nearly voiceless.  She tightened her arms around herself and tried to imagine Cullen’s around her, the warmth of another body against her back…

“Safe and solid, protecting and proud.”

Piper jerked up with yelp, and another yelp when she collided with the branch lattice of her shelter’s roof.  When she finally flailed her way out, she found a gangly young man sitting cross-legged in front of her, peering accusingly up at her from under a wide-brimmed hat.

“You went too close to the red,” Cole told her, disapproving, “I couldn’t find you.”

“Sorry,” she replied automatically.  Then, “It wasn’t exactly my choice.”

“Yes.  Bars and stone.  They thought you were weak, but they forgot you were smart.”

“Weak,” she muttered contemptuously.  “Well, I guess I showed them, huh?”

“They’ll be mad, but they’re always mad, with the red.”

God, if that wasn’t chilling.  Piper remembered watching the templars take their philter of red lyrium...

“Yeah, maybe let’s not talk about them anymore,” Piper said uneasily.  “If you’re here, Cole, does that mean there are Inquisition troops nearby?  My sister?”

“No?” Cole said, almost a question.  “I heard you, so I came.”

Piper blinked, parsing the statement.  “Were you… listening for me all this time?”

The hat bobbed in a nod.  Piper’s heart swelled, touched.  “Thank you, Cole.  I’m so glad you’ve been looking for me.”

“Everyone’s been looking for you.”

“Yes, and you found me.  Thank you,” she patted his shoulder.  “Can you help me a little more?”

“Yes.  I can help.” And then he vanished.

“Cole?” she yelped.  Her head twisted, looking around, then she spun around on the spot.  “Cole?”

“Here.”

She choked off the scream before it left her lips, turning it into a rather unattractive guttural noise in the back of her throat. Cole was next to her, offering her a—

“Oh my god yes,” she said, snatching the loaf of bread from him and tearing into it like a feral dog.  “Mph-ank oo.”

Cole hunkered down, looking like a particularly strange gargoyle, as he waited for her to finish eating.  The bread was delicious; still warm from baking, rich and nutty.  She polished off the whole loaf in short order, and as she swallowed the last bite, he offered up a small skin, the type probably meant to be filled with wine and hung from one’s belt.  This one was filled with water, cool and fresh, and she almost cried.  She’d been making do with scrounged edible plants and quick drinks at whatever semi-trustworthy body of water she came across.

“Thank you, Cole,” she said again.  “Thank you.”

Fed and watered, she felt very much improved.  And a lot more hopeful of her chances.  Cole might not fully understand the human condition—he did not completely understand emotions or how people could feel an emotion and not act on it, or act contrary to it—but he was Compassion, and the small, everyday magic of being able to feel what others felt meant that his every action was measured for kindness and helpfulness.  With him, she would assuredly make it home alive.

“Cole?  Could you look around us and see if there are any people nearby who’d help us get back to Skyhold?”

He nodded.  “There are.  Snow and fur, the Lady bleeds and they are afraid.”

“I… okay.  I’m not sure I understood that, but there are people nearby who can help?”

“They’ll help us if we help them,” Cole said, then tilted his head.  “They’ll like you.  You have their words.”

“Well, g—Cole!” He’d vanished again.  She kind of wished he’d warn her or something.

She waited, but he didn’t appear again immediately, and it was cold.  After she started shivering, she gave up and huddled in her debris shelter again.  It wasn’t until she woke up that she realized she’d fallen asleep.

Voices were what woke her, and for a moment fear sent a sharp lance of fear through her—fear that the Reds had found her.  But even as she gasped and jolted up, she realized she recognized words they were saying.

_“...himmel… utlänning… hon är ett barn...”_

_“I’ve reached my majority,”_ she said in Swedish, and all activity around her ceased.

_“What?”_

_“I’m not a child,”_ she elaborated, rising to stand.  Cole was beside her; obviously these were the people who could help her get back to Skyhold.

_“You speak our language.”_

_“Yes, it seems so.  I haven’t met anyone in this place who could, beside my sister.”_

_“Your god said your sister is the Herald of Andraste.”_

Her god?  She followed the man’s glance toward Cole.  Was that their word for spirits?  It didn’t mean that in normal Swedish, but then, her world didn’t actually have spirits and demons.  She responded slowly, _“Yes, my sister is called the Herald.”_

 _“Is it true she can close the tears in the Lady?”_ demanded one of the—perhaps?—younger members of their party.  They were all very tall and bore thick clay-like paint on their faces, it was a little hard to tell age.

_“The… Lady?”_

_“The Lady of the Skies.  She Who Gives and Takes.  Our god of sky and birds and the hunt,”_ said the first man who’d talked, making a gesture toward the sky.   _“Several moons ago, a great wound opened in her body, glowing green.  Many small tears have appeared since, releasing twisted gods into this world.”_

Oh.  The Rifts.  Damn, if they worshipped some goddess of the sky and believed the sky to be her body, the Rifts must really be concerning.  

 _“Yes, my sister can close the Rifts,”_ Piper nodded.  That set off a round of furtive mutterings amongst them, and Piper tried not to eavesdrop too much out of politeness’ sake.

 _“We will take you to your Hold,”_ said their spokesman, after they’d convened.   _“And in return, your Herald-sister will come to ours and heal the wounds in the Lady.”_

Piper didn’t know anything about these people, where they were from or what they were like, but Cole had brought them to help her.  And she was sure her sister would have no complaints about helping them out and closing the Rifts that were endangering their people; it was, after all, a goal of the Inquisition to close all the Rifts.

 _“Agreed,”_ she said, and held her hand out to shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "The Sore Feet Song" by Ally Kerr. It was used as the opening to the anime Mushishi. It's real nice and chill. Give it a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VBBFDb0hC4Y
> 
> Edit:: Ah, right, I was going to say: there won't be an update until next Thursday, as I'll be traveling. Sorry!


	43. At Peace

**Prompt: At Peace**

**Word count: 1,238**

* * *

Bull had great respect for the Inquisitor.  She’d proved herself a competent leader and brave, walking into battlefield even though she didn’t know how to fight.  She was clever and observant, and it made her formidable.  But he’d never really thought of her as dangerous, at least until now.

Until they reached the Ritual Tower, and her knife had flown into the shoulder of the posturing magister.  Until they’d taken him into custody and wondered how to deal with him, how to deal with what he had the Wardens doing in Adamant Fortress.

Bull had known she’d hardened since her sister went missing, that much was clear, but this… this was…

“You can’t do this!” snarled Hawke.  “This is  _ too much _ .”

“This is the only way,” Lyra replied, cold and implacable.  Hawke wheeled away, hands gripping her hair.

“I don’t  _ believe _ this!” Two steps away, then two steps back, hands coming down to jab a finger at the Inquisitor’s chest.  “You took in the mages!  I thought you were on their side!”

“This doesn’t mean I’m not,” she replied, meeting Hawke’s eyes straight and standing her ground.

“No?   _ YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT TRANQUILIZING A MAGE!” _ Hawke nearly screamed the last.

“You must acknowledge how this will affect the mages in the Inquisition,” Solas put in.  The Boss looked at him, then at each of them, meeting the eyes of each person standing around her.

“You think I don’t know?” she asked, finally showing some emotion.  “You think I don’t understand how mages were terrorized with the threat of the Rite?  How it was abused, to abuse them?  I know.  I fucking  _ know _ , okay?  I get it.  I happen to also think the Rite of Tranquility is a disgusting, backwards practice that has only hurt people.”

“Then why the fuck are you going to  _ use  _ it?” The Champion was unimpressed.

“Because I also understand what it would mean if the Wardens aren’t persuaded to stop this madness.  Don’t fucking tell me I don’t understand when you were not the one who fucking  _ saw  _ what Corypheus would do with a demon army, what the future would look like if he wins.   _ Everyone dies _ .  And I mean that in the most literal sense.  I will not be the one who presides over the end of the fucking world, okay?”

“Like I haven’t heard that argument before,” Hawke snapped.

“Hawke, maybe—” Varric tried uncomfortably.

“No, Varric.  I can’t believe none of you are protesting this!  This kind of bullshit is what started the war!”

“Well, then,  _ Champion _ , what do you propose we do?”

“We talk to the Wardens, tell them to stop.”

“Stroud, would that work?” The Inquisitor asked the silent Warden without taking her sharp stare off of Hawke.  Stroud hesitated, but replied with reluctant honesty.

“No.  I don’t believe it would.  The Wardens are insular and secretive; it is likely they would not believe you fully understand the situation, as an outsider.  As well, they have not listened to myself or others who have protested.”

“Another idea?” The Boss asked Hawke, whose eyes were blazing with anger.

“Then we get Erimond to tell them.  The idea came from him, right?  So if he admits it wouldn’t work, they’ll stop.”

“How do we get him to tell them?  Do you think he will willingly do so?”

Hawke seemed to struggle with herself.  “Pain is a good motivator.  Threaten him.”

“The Iron Bull.  You’re Ben-Hassrath; what’s your read on him?”

“The Vint’s a fanatic,” Bull replied readily, seeing what she was getting at.  He wondered how this would shake out.  She had a point—several of them.  And yet, he couldn’t tell if this practical ruthlessness was a product of her grief and rage, or simply brought about by necessity.  “He’ll die before he fails his master.”

“And I’m supposed to believe  _ you _ ?” Fair enough; the Champion had a fair amount of negative experience with the Qun.  The Arishok’s actions on Kirkwall lie between them.

“Hawke, he’s right.  You know it,” Varric said quietly.

“How can you  _ say  _ that, Varric!”

“This is some serious shit going on, Hawke.  And the Inquisitor’s not let us down yet.”

“But we’re talking about  _ Tranquility _ ,” Hawke gritted out from clenched teeth.

“Can the Tranquil lie?” To the others, the Boss’s question might have seemed an abrupt segue.  Most of them just blinked at her.

“No,” Solas replied, his gaze almost as intent and watchful as Bull’s.  “They cannot understand the motivations behind lies.”

“But they can say something that isn’t true, if they don’t know it’s wrong,” Hawke countered, cottoning on to where the questions were leading.  The Boss fixed her with another level, hard stare.

“Do you truly believe Erimond is simply misinformed?  That he truly believes summoning demons will help the Wardens?”

“No, of course not, but…” Hawke crossed and uncrossed her arms agitatedly.

“And we’ve established that he will never willingly tell the Wardens the truth, and that they likely will not listen to anyone else.” The Boss was tying the argument up.  “And that leaving the Wardens to their devices will result in massive and catastrophic loss of life.”

Hawke threw her arms in the air.  “On your head be it, Inquisitor.”

“Hawke,” she called as the other woman turned sharply on her heel to stride away.  She reluctantly stopped and looked back over her shoulder.  “It will be.  I know I may never be forgiven for this, by myself or others.  I will have to deal with the consequences of it, and I accept that.  But I also know we don’t have a lot of time to look for better options, and that this really is the option that saves the most lives.”

Hawke hesitated, then gave a curt nod—acknowledging the Inquisitor’s intention to shoulder the blame, if nothing else—and stalked away.

The rest of them stood in silence for a moment, then Varric awkwardly shifted.  “I should…”

“That’s fine, Varric,” Boss said quietly.  The dwarf trailed off after the Champion.  Stroud shifted, too, drawing attention to him.  When he met the Inquisitor’s gaze, he put a fist to his heart and bowed, lower than just her rank prescribed.

“Inquisitor,” he said.  There was a wealth of meaning in his tone, but Bull was pleased that he did not actually say ‘thank you.’  Stroud was intelligent and observant enough to have realized she would not appreciate being thanked for this.

“Warden Stroud,” she replied, voice even fainter.  He moved away.  Solas and Bull were left standing by the Boss.

“Solas,” she said, still with that breathy, almost absent tone.  “What do you think?”

The apostate considered her a moment, then replied in his usual, measured way: “Your assessment of the situation is faultless.  The Rite is a tool; you are simply making use of it here, despite how uncomfortable it is.”

Bull glanced toward her as the elf walked away, but instead of being reassured, she looked stricken, like she was going to be sick.  “Hey, Boss.”

Her eyes moved slowly to his face, a haunted look in them.  He waited until her gaze focused, and she became more present behind her eyes.  “Leadership is about tough choices.  A good leader is one who is willing to make those choices.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, “but I’ll still have to live with those choices.  And I’m not sure how I’ll manage with this one.  Excuse me, Bull; I need to speak with Knight-Captain Rylen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never had a character actually decide something for me, but when I decided that Lyra was going to chuck a knife into Erimond as he monologued at the ritual tower (something of wish fulfillment for me, tbh), I stopped and went 'then what?' And Lyra was like 'well, then I make him Tranquil' and I legit gasped. I've never ever used Tranquility in all my playthroughs, but the more I thought about it the more it made sense for the story and the characters.  
> Guess I took the chapter prompt in a slightly more ironic or darker direction...


	44. Complicated

**Prompt: Complicated**

**Word count: 1,643**

* * *

It felt like everything was falling apart.  Like Lady Piper had been the linchpin that held the Inquisition together and, without her, they were crumbling.  The Inquisitor most of all; her behavior significantly changed and out of character.  As much as Cullen hated the nickname Varric had bestowed upon him, the dwarf had a talent for naming others: Birdie for Lady Piper’s beautiful singing, and Sunshine for the Inquisitor’s irrepressibly cheerful demeanor.  Except the Inquisitor hardly could be described as cheerful anymore.

And they’d been worried about her learning how to throw knives.  If only sticking three inches of silverite through him had been the worst thing she’d done to the magister…

Cullen stood agitatedly, pacing to the window and staring blankly out at the Frostbacks.

His feelings on Tranquility were mixed.  Was it mercy or torture?

The first time he had witnessed a Rite had been at Kinloch, early on.  Greagoir had not wielded the Brand lightly, and that particular instance had been at the mage’s behest.  It had seemed like a mercy to the terrified, unhappy apprentice.  He had never wanted magic, never grew into it, and lived in fear of demons and his own power.  He wasn’t afraid after the Rite.

But he also wasn’t anything else after the Rite, either.

Many mages viewed Tranquility as a fate worse than death.  And yet, they were not given the choice, if they were elected for the Brand.  Cullen remembered other Rites, in Kirkwall, where the mage screamed and spat and struggled, until the Brand made them quiet and pliant.  He remembered one specifically, a woman, a Harrowed mage accused of blood magic.  She hadn’t protested the charges, but she had flown into a fury at the sentence of Tranquility.

“Just fucking kill me,” she’d screamed.  “I’m telling you to kill me!  I would rather die than be un-made!”

But they’d ignored her, strapped down her thrashing limbs, held her bucking head still for the Brand.  And they’d patted themselves on the back for the  _ mercy  _ they’d shown her.  But what mercy was it, to deny her autonomy?  Did they think they knew better?  Some patronizing self-righteousness?  Was it something darker?  The satisfaction that a once-rebellious mage, a blood mage, was now obedient to their every whim?

The magister undoubtedly would be one to prefer death over Tranquility.  But the Inquisitor had made a very compelling argument for why she couldn’t just execute him and have done.

Cullen  _ hated  _ that the argument made so much sense to him.  It felt like… like Meredith and the Gallows again.  She’d always had an argument, a reason, some Maker-damned fucking explanation to sooth Cullen, to make him stop questioning.  And it was  _ disgusting  _ that he even thought of Meredith and the Inquisitor in the same breath, because they were so different in so many, vital ways… But he couldn’t help it.

Was it mercy or torture?  And even if it began as mercy, did it become torture?  Who protected the Tranquil?

Cullen’s temples throbbed, and he let out a heavy sigh.  It was too much to think on, with everything else that was going on.  He had to organize a force to lay siege to Adamant, if the Inquisitor’s first plan did not work and they had to turn to force to stop the Wardens.  He didn’t have time to agonize over choices that he couldn’t change.

He sat back down at his desk and pulled a map of the Western Approach closer, but didn’t have much of a chance to look at it before there was a brisk knock on the east door of his office and a scout poked his head in.

“Commander?  There’s… um…”

“Yes?” Cullen prompted when the hesitation carried on too long.  The scout stiffened.

“Um!  There’s a group of-of Hillmen demanding to speak with you, ser, at the gate.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed.  Hillmen.  Avvar?  This had better not be a repeat of the incident with the goat.  “Did they tell you what they want?”

“No, ser, just demanded to speak with the Inquisitor, and when they were told she’s not in residence, to speak with you, ser.”

He sighed and stood.  “I’ll see to them; go and inform the Ambassador that her talents may be required.”

“Yes, ser!” The scout took off at a trot.  Cullen rounded his desk and headed out.  He wondered what the Avvar could want, if they were somehow associated with that fool the Inquisitor’s party had taken care of in the Fallow Mire.  Or perhaps they objected to the Inquisition’s presence in Skyhold; Avvar tribes often claims areas of the Frostbacks.  Or perhaps they were simply curious about the woman who could close Rifts, as the Avvar she had recruited—Sky-watcher—was.

He squinted against the afternoon light as he reached the main courtyard, taking the time it took him to descent the staircases to the gate’s level to inspect their visitors.  The nobility who had taken to loitering in Skyhold with the Inquisition’s increased political power were huddled in groups, whispering amongst themselves as they cast glances at the be-furred and painted barbarians.

There are six of them, two of the men bare-chested even with the bite of frost in the air.  One of them was much shorter than the rest.  A child?

As Cullen descended the stairs, that small figure looked up, face turning toward him.  He nearly fell down the rest of the stairs, shock jolting through him.

_ Piper _ .

Her sweet face was partly hidden by the fawn-colored fur lining her hood, but it was her.  Her eyes brightened at the sight of him, and her lips formed the syllables of his name...

He was moving before he could think, heartbeat rushing in his ears, his numb feet carrying him toward her irresistibly.  He felt unmoored, like a leaf carried by a current or iron pulled to a lodestone.  She watched him come, her eyes caught on his, and it was like everything else vanished but each other.  Her lips parted as he strode purposefully right up to her, not stopping, moving with desire and the need to have her in his arms.

“Cullen,” she breathed, just before he cupped her face in both hands and pressed his mouth to hers.  She whimpered into the kiss, and Cullen’s blood roared.  He revelled in the warmth of her, the soft press of her fingers wrapping around his wrists, the shy flicker of her tongue against his...  Abruptly recalling himself, where they were and the presence of an audience, he pulled away with a slight gasp.

“I’m sorry, that was…” he caught sight of her dazed face and trailed off.  Unable to complete disengage from her, audience or no, he brushed one thumb over her cheekbone, hating the glove that kept his skin from hers.  “You’re  _ here _ .  You-you’re alright?”

She looked well; the kiss had put a healthy flush into her cheeks.  “Yes.  I escaped, and then Cole and the Avvar kept me safe.  They helped me get here.”

Cole?  He hadn’t even noticed the spirit had left the fortress.  His head turned to try to find the boy, who was suddenly standing nearby.  Cullen reached out to clasp his thin shoulder, feeling warmer toward the spirit-boy than he ever had.  “Good lad.”

“They call her sister sunshine, but she is, too,” Cole said, and then was gone.  Cullen barely flinched, turning toward the Avvar and trying to regain his composure.  One of the men, this one wearing a fur-lined vest and with clay-like paint daubed down his bare arms, spoke to Lady Piper in their rolling Avvar language.  His tone seemed almost teasing, if Cullen could read it correctly, but the words made no sense to him.  Surprisingly, Piper replied in the same tongue, smiling.  The Avvar turned to him.

“It is heartening to see the Inquisition values its skald so dearly,” he said in a deep accent.

“Skald?” Cullen asked, trying to ignore the heat in his face, cutting his gaze to Piper.

“The one who makes music in your halls, writes songs of your deeds,” said the Avvar.  “They are beloved among us.  I am Vilgot Ar Anwn O Boarshold, the senior of this hunting party.”

Cullen accepted his outstretched hand, and they clasped forearms.  “Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition’s forces.  We owe you a great debt…”

They were interrupted by a gasp and startled exclamation as Josephine arrived and saw Piper.  The Antivan shrieked and threw herself toward the other woman, throwing her arms around her, dropping her scribe’s board without a care.  Cullen was reminded of when they’d named Lyra the Inquisitor, and Josephine’s uninhibited cheering that day.

“You’re alive!  You’re alright!  You  _ are  _ alright, yes?  You look well… Oh, I am so glad to see you!” Josephine said in a rush, squeezing her tight.  Cullen’s arms felt empty without Piper in them and he watched enviously.  But Josie’s sense of duty and propriety did not let her linger; she pulled away from Piper, her eyes on the restless Avvar.

“Josie, may I introduce the clansmen and women from Boarshold, who helped me return to Skyhold after I escaped from the Red Templars,” Piper said, stepping forward.  Cullen had to suppress the urge to reach out and pull her back close to him once more.

“Honored guests,” Josephine said, inclining her head, “we offer you our hospitality and our thanks.  Lady Piper is well loved by the Inquisition, and we are in your debt for the aid rendered to her.”

“We accept your hospitality, and gladly,” said Vilgot.  He continued, saying something with brusque Avvar diplomacy to Josephine, but Cullen was finding it difficult to focus on them.  His attention kept being drawn back to Piper.  He can hardly believe she is there, standing in arms-reach of him, warm and alive and  _ safe _ .

_ Maker, Andraste, thank you, she’s safe. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, right? Good job, Cullen.
> 
> Sadly, there won't be a chapter this Thursday, what with the holiday.


	45. Umbrella

**Prompt: Umbrella**

**Word count: 2,862**

* * *

 

Adamant rose like a gleaming onyx cactus from the desert sandstone, the large spikes that jutted from its walls shining malevolently in the hot sun.  Lyra stared at it as one condemned might stare at the gallows.

She knew what would happen in those walls.  She hoped she could change it, but there were parts that she knew had to happen.  She might save the Wardens, or at least some of them, and stop the stupidity of that last ritual, but the Nightmare would not simply go away on its own.  Even if she stopped the blood magic and demon summoning, the false Calling would still be echoing in the Wardens’ ears.

She would have to go into the Fade, to kill the Nightmare.

“At any other time, I’d say those spikes look absurd,” Varric said, coming up to stand next to her.  Her heart shivered at the amiable tone of his voice; she hadn’t thought anyone would speak to her in friendship again, just that low, careful tone like she was a dangerous animal they had to appease.  “Do you think they were actually for defense, or just to look intimidating?”

“Intimidation, I guess,” Lyra replied tentatively.  “They’re too widely spaced to stop anything from getting close to the walls.”

Varric grunted an agreement, and then his head turned to look back toward camp, and the still, stiff form of the former-magister.  Lyra tensed little, wishing… Well, wishing a great many things, really.

They’d had to wait some time for Leliana to acquire a lyrium brand for the Rite, and then to send it out to them in Griffon Wing Keep.  Then, too, Rylen had actually never administered the Brand, so they’d had to seek out a templar who’d been familiar with the process yet sympathetic enough not to be cruel about it, and a mage to act as a witness and liaison.  That mage had not been happy.  To be fair, nearly everyone had not been happy.  They’d subsided a little when Lyra explained the situation, her purpose for calling for the Rite.  It hadn’t made everything better, but there was some level of acceptance when she explained that it was purely for the ‘truth-serum’ effect of Tranquility that she was calling for it, rather than the intention of a ‘worst-nightmare’ sort of punishment.  Oddly—or perhaps not oddly—the mage had relaxed when she’d said that Erimond would be given mercy after providing his testimony to the Wardens.

“At least you’re not going to parade him around like a trophy,” had been the man’s response.  Lyra hadn’t said anything in return; she didn’t feel like that made it any better.  Not even the written statements that had come from the mage representatives in the Inquisition made her feel better about what she’d done.

“It’s a pretty raw deal you have,” Varric said at last, quietly.  “You’ve had to make some pretty shitty decisions since you came to Thedas.”

“...Yeah,” she said hoarsely.

“But, you know, we’ve trusted you through all of it.  And you’ve always had what was best for everyone in mind.  You’ve always had your reasons.  I guess we’ve just gotta trust it’s the same now.”

Lyra’s throat tied itself into knots.  She cleared it, then cleared it again, but had to take a moment before she choked out a wavering: “Thanks, Varric.”

“Yeah,” he said, quiet and solemn, sharp eyes on her.  “Yeah, Sunshine.  Of course.”

They stood there for a long moment, before Varric inhaled in preparation to speak.  “Are you ready?”

She took a breath, held it for a count of three, and let it out.  “Let’s go.”

They rode out on horses, a small party carefully chosen and hotly contested by her advisors.  Cullen had wanted her to wait for his army to make it to the Approach, but Lyra knew time was short and had refused pointblank to wait.  Leliana had been displeased with the idea of her putting herself right in front of Adamant’s gates, an easy target if the Wardens so chose.  Josephine had wanted a diplomatic liaison to accompany her if any negotiations had to take place.

They’d all compromised with a larger party than Lyra’s usual three-companion squad; along with Varric, Solas, and Iron Bull, ten others would ride with her to Adamant to parlay with the Wardens.  The templar and mage who’d come with the Brand, Ebbot and Victor, would continue to act as liaisons and witnesses, and eight veteran Inquisition soldiers would act as an honor guard.  Two of them carried Inquisition standards, crimson and gold cloth vibrant in the sun.

Erimond rode with her, sitting docile behind her.  His proximity made her skin crawl.  She knew she didn’t have to fear a knife in the back, but the fact that he  _ would have  _ shanked her made it hard to really believe.  Reminding herself that he was Tranquil and harmless only made her skin crawl for different reasons.

His hands rested demurely on her waist as they trotted slowly toward Adamant’s main gate.  Their approach would be obvious and visible; there was no cover on the desert road leading up to the fortress.  The Wardens would know they were coming and have time to prepare.  Hopefully that would not be ‘prepare to attack’, but rather ‘prepare to treat with’.

Lyra reined in her horse gently a comfortable distance from the actual gate, so that they wouldn’t have to crane their necks uncomfortably to see the top of the ramparts.  She gestured to one of the honor guard, who rode two horse-lengths forward and called out in a battlefield-voice:

“Inquisitor Lyra Hjaltason, Bearer of the Mark and Herald of Andraste, gives greetings to the illustrious Grey Wardens, and extends an invitation of conversation to your Commander, Clarel!”

There was a long pause, and then the wicket gate opened to allow five Wardens resplendent in blue and silver to pass.  The lead woman, a tall and slender mage with her hair trimmed so tight to her scalp it was a mere shadow of stubble, stalked toward the Inquisition party with a brisk and no-nonsense stride.  The others, Lyra assumed, were high-ranking Wardens.  Clarel’s advisors, perhaps.  It didn’t matter too much; she was just glad that they had responded and come out.  It meant that, as she’d hoped and prayed, they hadn’t started the ritual quite yet.

As they approached, Lyra dismounted, then turned to help Erimond off the horse.  Around her, the other members of her party dehorsed.  They stood in an easy group, hands carefully away from weapons so as not to provoke anything, but not so far they could not respond quickly to any threat.

“Inquisitor,” Clarel greeted her in a crisp Orlesian accent.  Her eyes scanned them.  When they lit on Stroud, they darkened with regret and betrayal.  “Jean-Marc.”

He didn’t respond verbally, but inclined his head.

Then Clarel’s gaze landed on Erimond, and her expression tightened in anger at the obvious brand on his forehead.  “I must say I did not expect you to perpetuate the abuses the Chantry has visited upon the mages, Inquisitor.  What gives you the right to Brand mages, when the Circles have been disbanded and the mage in question does not even fall under your jurisdiction?”

“On the contrary, Tevinter has disavowed any connection to the supremacist cultists known as the Venatori, and they have given the Inquisition leave to deal with these hostile individuals in any way we see fit,” Lyra replied.  Any doubts or worries she felt were bundled up and stuffed far down in the recesses of her soul; Politician Lyra was in the driver’s seat for now.  Her voice was calm and level.

“Venatori?” Clarel said, glancing toward Erimond with a furrowed brow.  Did they not know he’d been Venatori?  Lyra couldn’t remember from the game.

“The Tevene extremists who have allied themselves with Corypheus, the Darkspawn Magister who blew up the Conclave, yes.”

“Darkspawn!” said one of the other Wardens who’d come out with Clarel.  She couldn’t see his face, but he sounded Fereldan.  Clarel tensed like she wanted to shush him, but didn’t.

“Yes.  And your reactions to these piece of information make me confident that I made the right decision with Erimond’s fate.”  She paused to give Clarel a chance to speak, but the older woman did not.  Her brown eyes were narrowed, and Lyra could practically see the gears turning in her mind.  “Warden-Commander Clarel, do Tranquil lie?”

Clarel’s attention focused on her and she was thoughtfully silent for a moment before responding.  “No, they do not.  Tranquil do not understand the emotional reasons behind lying; if one knows the truth, they do not know why one would not speak it.”

“True.  I could not trust Erimond to tell you the truth behind his actions and conversations with you, either willingly or by coercion.  He is Corypheus’s creature, wholly.  Lacking other recourse, I decided to Brand him Tranquil, so that he would readily divulge the truth.”

A couple of the Wardens behind Clarel were shifting uneasily, discomfited by the inference that Erimond had been lying to them, and that they had been believing it.

“What is this truth you would have him tell us, Inquisitor?” Clarel asked.  Lyra turned to Erimond himself and gestured him forward.  He obediently approached.

“Erimond, will you please tell Warden-Commander Clarel what you were sent to the Wardens to do?”

He obliged, in his flat Tranquil voice.  As he spoke, describing the plan that Corypheus had for the Wardens, the power he had over them, Clarel and the other Wardens began frowning, muttering together in rising anger.

“And what of my mages?” Clarel said, holding herself very rigid indeed.  “The ones you have already enslaved.  Can they be released?”

“No.  Their spirits are fled and all that remains is the will of Corypheus,” Erimond droned.  Clarel snarled.

“That is over half of my mages!”

“Those who are bound are already dead,” the former magister reiterated, unconcerned.

“You—!” Clarel looked enraged, and Lyra stepped between her and Erimond.

“We can’t save the mages that are already lost,” she told the Wardens, “but we can prevent the further loss of life from Wardens succumbing to the false Calling.”

“I demand you release the magister to the Wardens to answer for his crimes!” Clarel’s accent became more pronounced with her anger.  Lyra shook her head and spoke in a calming tone.

“I can’t do that.  Erimond will be given the blade of mercy after his testimony has been given.”

“What?” One of the other Wardens made a surprised noise.

“I swore that I would never use the Rite of Tranquility as a punishment, and I am doing what I can to keep that oath.  Erimond was never Branded to punish him for what he has done; I only Branded him so that he would give a trustworthy account of himself and his actions.  But now that he  _ is _ Tranquil, I morally cannot condone any punishment for his crimes.  No service nor torture; it would be an abuse of a vulnerable person, no matter what he was before he was made vulnerable.” Lyra said, hoping her explanation made sense.  “My decision to make him Tranquil was fueled by necessity; had I not needed him to give you the truth about the rituals he was having you do, I would have simply executed him for his crimes.  But he  _ was  _ Branded, and he is now Tranquil.  So what now?  Do I have him live as a Tranquil?  Before, he would have rather died, but now he does not care, so it would not  _ be _ punishment to him.  Would I have him flogged or otherwise physically punished for what he’d done?  He cannot feel remorse or repentance, as he is Tranquil.  Do I hurt a man just to make myself feel better?  That is not justice, it is cruelty.

“I have discussed the matter with representatives from the mage groups allied with the Inquisition, and it has been agreed that Erimond will be given a merciful death after he has given satisfactory testimony.  Morally, we cannot punish a Tranquil for crimes committed before Tranquility.  As well, we have agreed that making an unwilling mage Tranquil is a violation of their personhood.  Since Erimond’s preference had been death before Tranquility, we will respect that wish now, though I had ignored it before.”

“What if he doesn’t want to die now?” asked a Warden.

“He only doesn’t want to die because we altered him, against his will.  He is not in his right mind.  If you tell me you want one thing when you’re sober, and then get drunk and tell me you want a different thing, I will default to the one you wanted when you were sober, because your judgement and thoughts are compromised by being drunk.”  Lyra paused, looking at them.  “This is hardly an ideal situation.  But amongst the choices we have, I and my colleagues believe this is the best.”

“We have statements from representatives of the Loyalist, Aequitarian, and Libertarian mage factions within the Inquisition affirming their support of the Inquisitor’s actions,” said Victor, the Inquisition mage liaison, stepping forward with three ribbon-and-wax-seal-bedecked vellum sheets.  Clarel barely looked at them, instead inspecting Lyra with a shrewd and thoughtful gaze.  Was there respect in her eyes?

“You have gone to some effort to treat a criminal and murderer justly,” she said.

“I don’t want to be a tyrant,” Lyra told her quietly.  “I don’t want to be just another cog in the machine of oppression.  All I have ever wanted is to save lives and improve them.  I do not like the decision I made here, but I stand by the assertion that it was the best choice out of those available to us.”

There was a silence, then Clarel shifted.  “Thank you for what you have done for the Grey Wardens, Inquisitor.”

“Your lives are not insignificant to me,” she replied, “and the Wardens are needed.  If… If I may, you’ll need assistance in stopping the Nightmare and the false Calling.  I would like to offer the Inquisition’s aid to do so.”

“I accept on behalf of the Wardens, Inquisitor,” Clarel said, chin lifting.  “But for now, I need to speak with my brothers and sisters.  We can meet again on the morrow?  I will send a messenger.”

Lyra nodded, relief filling her veins with champagne.  Could she actually have averted the massacre at Adamant?  Would the Wardens remain strong in this reality?  Well, it wasn’t over yet, she supposed.  There was still the Nightmare to deal with, but at least the Wardens wouldn’t be sacrificing each other in ill-advised blood rituals.  “Of course, Warden-Commander.”

Clarel offered a hand, and Lyra reached out readily.  They clasped forearms, a soldier’s handshake in Thedas, apparently.  Then both groups turned and began to retreat back to their respective camps—the Wardens in Adamant, and the Inquisition in the small field camp in the distance.

Back on their horses and Adamant shrinking behind them, Lyra finally let herself relax, the stiff, formal posture of her shoulders loosening.  She closed her eyes and let out a long breath, feeling as if she hadn’t been breathing the whole time.

“Well, that went better than expected,” Varric said cheerfully.

“The Inquisitor is a skilled diplomat,” Solas opined.  Lyra still wasn’t sure if he hated for using the Brand.  She couldn’t tell how he felt about it at all, and it was seriously making her uncomfortable.  She remembered complaining long and hard about how in-game Solas was so hard to read, and that trying to pick dialog options with him was like trying to hit a moving target while blindfolded.  She never knew how he’d react to things.  That was definitely true for the real Solas.

“I’m just glad they gave me the chance to explain,” Lyra said.  “I hope we can help them more.  I’m still not entirely certain I’ll be able to open a Rift to the Fade.”

“It is theoretically possible, but yes, it might take more power than you have.  Would you not consider taking lyrium for the attempt?” Solas asked, not for the first time since they’d discussed the possibility.  Lyra’s stomach turned over, physically disgusted by the very idea.

“I’m not a mage and I’ve never taken lyrium.  We have no idea how it’d affect me.  I’m not considering the option at this point.”

Solas inclined his head, expression as unreadable as ever.

“What are we going to do about the Inquisition army that’s marching here?” the Iron Bull asked.

“We can use them in the assault on the Nightmare.  If I open a Rift, demons’ll come out.  And besides, we’ve still got that Venatori nest to clear out up in Echoback.”

“Hey, Sunshine?”  Lyra looked up at Varric’s careful voice.  He was staring out across the sand toward the Inquisition camp.  A soldier was running out to meet them.  Her stomach swooped.  What new disaster would she have to deal with?  Red Templars?  Darkspawn?  All the hellishness under the umbrella of ‘Orlesian politics’?

“Your Worship!” the soldier shouted once he was in range.  He held up a scroll of parchment.  “You’re sister’s been found!”


	46. Reality

**Prompt: Reality**

**Word count: 1,747**

* * *

Everyone pretty much lost their collective minds with Piper’s return.  She didn’t think she’d ever be left alone for a second for the rest of her life; there was always someone checking on her, hovering over her.  Sometimes it was Dorian, whose sarcasm was turned up to eleven to show he cared.  Sometimes it was Josephine, or the Chargers, or Cole.  Blackwall made an appearance, despite the distance at which he held himself from most of the Inquisition.  Sera played no less than five pranks on her in the first two days of her return.  The Avvar hung around with her most of her waking hours, having adopted her as their mascot or something.  They’d become attached to her during their travels, for whatever reason.  Perhaps because she shared their language, and they liked her songs.  Her mabari were ecstatic, and had almost knocked her over multiple times in their excitement and exuberance.  They pressed close to her legs and often reared up to lick at her face.

In any case, she was rarely left to herself, which was annoying because what she really wanted to do was talk to Cullen.  The kiss still burned in her memory.

He was prepping the army to move; something about the Wardens and the Western Approach.  That meant that he’d be gone for weeks on end, unless she went with him, which she already knew nobody would let her do.  So that all meant that if she didn’t speak to him now about what was between them, she would have to wait days and days to do so.  It was an extremely unappealing prospect.

She staked him out, watching and waiting until she had an opening.  He was out and about, inspecting the troops and their supplies, speaking with Dennet about the horses, checking in with the kitchen about travel-rations.  When he was in his office, runners were in and out all the time, carrying messages around Skyhold.  It felt, sometimes, like he was deliberately busy, so that he wouldn’t have to speak to her.  She wondered if he regretted the kiss.

She watched his office from the vantage point of the high tower room she shared with her sister, growing more and more restless as the day turned into evening.  He was going to leave tomorrow, and she  _ had  _ to speak with him before he left.

What if she didn’t, and he didn’t come home?  He wasn’t one to lead his soldiers from the back.  Hell, Lyra told her she’d met him in the thick of the fighting when the Breach had first been open, cutting down demons.  What if the worst came to pass?  What if he died without knowing she loved him?

She shivered, closing her eyes.  Love was a word she’d been afraid to think to herself for a long time.  But now she found herself struggling not to.

Candlelight glowed from within Cullen’s office, and Piper finally reached her breaking point.  She didn’t care if he was in a meeting, or writing reports or whatever.

“I’m gonna talk to him,” she told Rey and Poe, standing up.  Gripping her courage tight, she descended the tower stairs, walked briskly across the main hall and Solas’s rotunda, marched down the walkway to Cullen’s office, and froze in front of the door.

What if he regretted it?  The kiss.  What if he didn’t really mean it?  What if—?

Rey whined and headbutted her hip. Poe pressed against the backs of her legs, as if urging her forward.  She resisted briefly, swallowing against her nerves.  “Oh, alright, you guys.  I’m going, I’m going.”

Before she could second-guess herself again, she rapped her knuckles on the door.

“Enter!” Cullen’s voice was muffled by the door, but it still almost had her running for the hills.  Rey and Poe looked up at her eagerly.  Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open.  The dogs barrelled in, and mobbed poor Cullen, who was visibly torn between indulging the hounds in some pets and greeting their mistress.  “Oh. I, ah...  Lady Piper…”

“Cullen.” Oh, that was a lot breathier than she wanted.  Her face flamed.  “U-um.”

Her voice cracked.   _ Godfuckingdammit. _

“I’m… You’re… well?” Cullen asked haltingly, fixing his attention on the dogs.  Finn, who apparently had a straw-stuffed cushion behind Cullen’s desk, had risen to greet his siblings, and Piper.  She stooped to rub his ears, grateful for the opportunity to hide her heated blush.

“Yes, I’m fine.  Samson didn’t really do anything to me, just stuck me in a cage and tried a little intimidation.  I… Well, the biggest thing I fear is that he took the opportunity to infect me with the red lyrium.”

“He didn’t.  You’re not,” Cullen assured her at once, firm.

“Oh,” she said, blinking.  His cheeks pinked.

“I… I would be able to hear the lyrium in you, if you had been infected,” he explained, avoiding her gaze.

“Oh!  Because you were a templar?”

His hands flexed.  “Yes.  But I don’t.  Hear lyrium in you, that is.  You’re… you’re alright.”

The wave of relief that washed over her was unexpected; she hadn’t thought she’d been so worried about the possibility, but her knees nearly gave out at the assurance than she wasn’t going to start growing crystals.  “Oh thank god.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, as they both searched for things to talk about that  _ weren’t  _ the kiss.  Piper’s eyes darted awkwardly around the room.   _ Why is this so hard?  Suck it up, Hjaltason!   _ “I, um… Is that my pennywhistle?”

“What?” Cullen jolted, looking down at the little pipe sitting on his desk.  His blush darkened.  “Oh.  Ah, yes.  I, ah, wanted…”

He stumbled to a halt, apparently either unable or unwilling to explain why he had one of her instruments in his office.  A token?  A reminder?  She found that she liked the idea that he’d had it with him while she was missing.  

“Do you play?” she blurted.  He was startled into looking at her, and quickly glanced back down to the dogs.

“I did, once.  I am not as talented as you, of course.”

Piper picked the whistle up, turned it over in her hands.  She was getting off topic.  This wasn’t what she came here for.  “I’m… It makes me happy that you had it here with you.”

“Does it?” He looked truly surprised.  Piper steeled herself and met his gaze.

“Yes.  Cullen, I…” she wet her lips nervously, and felt a frisson of heat as she watched his eyes follow the motion.  Breathier: “I care for you.  I was afraid to say it for so long, but… But when I was sitting in that damn cage, thinking I would never see you again, I… I regretted never telling you.”

She felt like she was panting after the confession, not only because she’d stuttered through it in a single breath, but also because his eyes had not faltered in their steady gaze the whole time.  His pupils were wide and dark, his regard was intent and grew more heated as she spoke.  When she fell silent, twisting her cane in her hands, he took a step toward her.

“I’d hoped…” he started slowly and quietly, pausing and trying again:  “I’ve thought about this, what I might say in this situation.”

Piper held her breath as he took another step closer, shaking his head.  “I am no great speaker; I have never been clever with words.  But I want… I want you to know, without doubt, how I feel.”

She was trembling as he reached her and slowly cupped her face in one hand, his thumb brushing over her lips.  The reality of what was finally happening shook her to the core.  She thought she might faint, as her breath stuttered and her heart galloped.  “Cullen?”

He dipped his head and kissed her, and she whined into his mouth and pressed herself closer, her hands lifting to dig her fingers into his hair, her cane clattering to the floor.  Cullen’s free hand slipped up her back to rest against her spine between her shoulder-blades, gently holding her to him.  The kiss went on until they broke apart with a gasp.  Piper slowly opened her eyes to look up at Cullen’s honeyed gaze, joy fizzing in her veins.

“I take that to mean you also care for me?” she whispered, scratching her nails lightly against his scalp and smiling when he shivered.  He reached up and caught her hands in his.

“Yes,” he said, and it was her turn to shiver with the weight of the regard in his eyes.  Then he seemed to shrink a little, the slight smile on his lips falling away, his eyes cutting to the side.  “But… there is… There are things you should know, about me.  Things that might… change your mind…”

“I doubt that,” she said.  “I know you, Cullen.  I know there was darkness in your life, but I also know how you have committed yourself to changing.”

But he shook his head, looking unconvinced.  “You may change your mind.”

Piper twisted her fingers around in his grasp so that she could squeeze his hands.  “We’ll see.  Please, tell me.”

Cullen detangled himself from her, seeming to need to put some distance between them so that he could say what he needed to say.  He raked a hand through his hair and let out a ragged breath.  “I… You need to know about Kinloch and… and Kirkwall.”

Piper didn’t tell him that she already knew some of it; he needed to say it for his own sake, even if he wasn’t aware of it.  So she was silent and attentive, listening without judgement.  She knew her feelings wouldn’t change because of anything he said; she disliked a lot of what he’s said and done in the past, but she recognized that much of it had come from a place of trauma, and that he now recognized his faults and was healing and working to change.

When he was done, exhausted and emotionally drained, he looked at her with resigned despair, apparently fully expecting her to turn away from him in disgust.  Surprise was obvious on his face when she stepped into him and embraced him, rising on her toes to press her face into his neck.

“I’m so glad you’re in a place where you can heal,” she whispered into his skin, and felt him shudder and press his own face into her hair.


	47. Slow Down

**Prompt: Slow Down**

**Word count: 1,054**

* * *

Cassandra watched Cullen thoughtfully as he rode beside her in the column of soldiers marching to the Western Approach.  He seemed… more settled, calmer than usual.  He was usually firmly anchored, a steady presence, but it seemed deeper now.  Perhaps it was the relief of having recovered the Lady Piper?

She felt her cheeks pink as she recalled the gossip that had rushed through Skyhold like a wildfire, of a kiss in the courtyard.  Cassandra was sad she’d missed it; it sounded as if it had been terribly romantic.  When she thought about it, her heart fluttered, and she could feel herself blushing.  She wanted to ask him about it, or ask Lady Piper about it, but withheld herself.  She might be friends with both of them, but this was a topic she felt unable to broach with either of them.

Involuntarily, her gaze cut toward Dorian, who also rode nearby.  He had spoken with her a couple times about the slowly blossoming romance between the Lady and the Commander.  They agreed on the fit and drama of the match, but Dorian was much more vocal about it than Cassandra, and needled both parties incessantly.  Cassandra worried that the teasing would drive them apart.  As if he could sense her gaze, he glanced up to meet her eyes.  His cut toward Cullen, and then back to her, and he winked.  Cassandra had barely any time to feel wary before the Tevinter mage was nudging his horse closer and opening his mouth.

“Oh, Commander, you seem in a fine mood today,” he said, and Cassandra could see Cullen’s hackles rise.  Warily, the Commander looked at Dorian and was silent for a long moment, as if considering how to respond.  Finally, he said:

“Is there a reason I should not be?”

Dorian chuckled.  “Not at all.  It is a lovely day down here, out of the snow.  We’re marching to fight Venatori and demons rather than Wardens and demons.  And I’m quite sure you received a nice farewell from our little songbird when we set out.”

Cullen flushed darkly, and scowled, turning away from Dorian and refusing to respond.  The mage didn’t let that discourage him, however.  “She blushes almost as prettily as you.”

Cullen muttered something darkly, either cursing Dorian or praying for strength.  The mage laughed as he slowed his horse and dropped back to his place in the column.  Cassandra watched Cullen relax incrementally beside her, the blush slowly fading from his cheeks.  Finally, she could not help herself.  “Is it true?”

He looked at her with an expression of complete betrayal.  Cassandra kept her face forward, staunchly ignoring the heat in her own cheeks.  “Did you kiss her?”

“ _ Andraste save me _ ,” Cullen said sharply, but quietly.  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “You, too, Seeker?”

“I… You are good for each other,” Cassandra managed, voice becoming even sterner as she tried to hide how much it affected her.  “I hope that it is true.”

Cullen blinked at her, then hurriedly looked away.  “I… Yes.  I, ah, did.”

His voice broke and he had to clear his throat halfway through the confession, and Cassandra felt a fondness grow inside for how tentative and awkward he and the Lady were with each other.

“I am glad,” she said, exasperated with herself a little for how her voice came out severe instead of encouraging.  “Denial was doing neither of you any good.”

The look he bestowed upon her was one of confusion and embarrassment.  “I must admit I did not expect you to…”

“Approve?” Cassandra felt a prick in her heart, but she should hardly be surprised; she was vehement in keeping this side of herself hidden, after all.

But Cullen shook his head.  “I didn’t expect you to speak of it.  You don’t often involve yourself with others’ personal affairs.”

Well, that was… That was true.  She tried to hold herself back from that sort of sharing, as it often was expected she reciprocate, and she had little desire to speak of her own matters of the heart.  She remembered Galyan’s exasperation with her coolness.

_ ‘Maker’s breath, Cass, do you ever take the armor off?’ _

She regretted some things, now in the wake of his death.  She regretted the distance and secrecy with which they’d had to live; a Seeker and a mage would have found no leniency in the Chantry’s laws.  She regretted that she had never spoken against those laws.  She regretted that she had not spoken more of her heart to Galyan; she hoped he had not died doubting her feelings for him.

“I am not… an easy person to be friends with,” she said haltingly, reluctantly, “but I do count you as a friend, Commander.  And I wish my friends to be… happy.”

She was very glad they were riding spaced enough that the soldiers in front and behind them would not overhear their quiet conversation; she did not think they needed to hear their Commander and a Seeker fumbling for words like stuttering youths.

Cullen coughed a little.  “Thank you, Cassandra.  It is… It is reassuring to know you don’t think this is ill-advised.”

“Not at all,” she said, startled into earnestness.  “It is… it is  _ wise _ .  Her presence in your life can be a support.”

She paused then, a thought occurring to her.  “Did you tell her, Cullen?”

He coughed again and cleared his throat, refusing to look at her.  “About the ly… About it?  No.”

“Do you not think she needs to know?” Cassandra frowned.

“We’ve not… not talked about… what we want from...this.”

The conversation was clearly as difficult for Cullen as it was for her; the thought was oddly reassuring.  “But the Inquisitor knows?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you need to tell her before her sister does.”

“The Inquisitor wouldn’t,” Cullen said, perplexed.  “She knows that it is… well, not a secret, precisely, but…”

“But would she assume you told Lady Piper?”

“I…”

“You should tell her.  It is too easy for miscommunication or misunderstandings to cause problems in relationships,” Cassandra said firmly.  Cullen was beginning to look a little guilty, and Cassandra decided to let up on him.  “Think about it.”

“I-I will.”  A long moment later: “Thank you, Cassandra.”

She cleared her throat, nodding sharply.  Silence settled again around them.


	48. Simplicity

**Prompt: Simplicity**

**Word count: 1,920**

* * *

 

Solas wondered if he would ever stop underestimating the small human woman who bore the Anchor.  Time and again, he assumed one thing only to have her contradict him.  He had not expected her to survive more than a week in the Hinterlands—a slight woman with no combat skills on the front lines of battle?  He’d expected she’d catch the wrong end of a templar’s blade, or a demon’s talons.  But she survived, navigating battlefields with a sharp-eyed intellect that had her always in the right place at the right time, seamlessly integrating herself with her team members so that they guarded her without her ever getting in the way or distracting from the flow of battle.

He had not expected her to be so compassionate—a human with the pampered skin and untried body of a noble?  He’d expected her to be superficial and arrogant, self-righteous and dismissive of non-humans.  But she demanded a zero-tolerance policy for the Inquisition, where all people were valued and any prejudice was immediately denounced.  She was not afraid to do hard work and did not think herself above anyone.

And after witnessing her compassion, he had not expected her to be quite so pragmatic in her dealing with the Magister.  Tranquility disgusted him; to violently sever a being’s connection to the Fade was anathema, was unnatural, was an abomination more so that any demon-ridden mage.  And yet, despite her idealistic actions throughout the Inquisition’s formation and evolution, she had put her ideals aside at that moment.  She had chosen Tranquility for Erimond, accepting the castigations of other who disapproved, accepting her own self-doubt and disgust.  Ruthlessly pragmatic.

So he should have already learned his lesson.  He should not have doubted her ability, her drive, when she said she would not take lyrium to fuel her attempt to open a Rift into the Fade.  He should have seriously considered the possibility that she  _ would _ , that the will and the power contained within her and the Anchor on her hand would be enough.

And it was.  She stood in Adamant, a courtyard ringed in Wardens and Inquisition soldiers, her party arrayed behind her as she lifted her marked hand, the Anchor’s light flaring.  Her face contorted, lip curling back to bare her teeth, nose wrinkling.  Strain was writ in every line of her body, her limbs trembling as the magic of the Anchor fought with the magic of the Veil.  A primal shout of effort squeezed itself from her lungs, and her fingers clawed the air…

There was a crackled, and a large, resonant  _ boom _ …

A Rift split open before her, and she fell to a knee, panting for breath and cradling her marked hand to her chest.  But Solas barely noticed, staring at the Rift in shock.

“Are you well, Inquisitor?” Warden-Commander Clarel asked.  Solas shook himself, and went to her, gently peeling her hand away from her chest so he could see the Anchor.  It spat at him, the skin of her palm around it red and irritated.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, tugging her hand from his grip almost as soon as he finished casting a healing and warding spell on it.  Her eyes were fixed on the Rift, her expression grim and determined.  “Let’s move, quickly.  The longer the Rift is open, the more danger we’re putting everyone here in.”

“Of course,” Clarel replied, and turned to bark orders to her Wardens.  The Inquisitor got to her feet, looking to Solas and meeting his eyes.

“Thank you,” she told him, then glanced around.  “Commander Cullen?”

“Inquisitor,” the man replied, appearing beside her with a quick step.  “The Inquisition stands ready to provide support.”

She gave a single approving nod.  “I am not sure how long we will be gone; I understand time is different in the Fade, and so what is long for us might be mere moments for you.  However, I do hope to keep this shorter than a day.  Will our forces hold?”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” he replied instantly, confidently.  “With the Wardens bolstering our numbers, we can set up a rotation to keep our fighting line fresh and rested.  We will not fail.”

“Good,” she replied.  “I leave it in your hands, Commander.”

She turned to her hand-picked team, those few who would venture into the Fade with her.  Solas, Cassandra, Varric.  Clarel had insisted on joining them, and was bringing a small team of her own: two of her officers, Warden-Constables Picard and Carpenter, and Stroud, with whom she had evidently reconciled over the course of an hours-long talk.

“Alright,” the Inquisitor said.  “You know what we must do.  Solas has briefed us on what we might expect from the Fade.  If you have any reservations about this, tell me now.  If not, we are going to head in.”

Nobody spoke, watching her with level eyes.  If nothing else, Solas had to credit them with courage.  There were not many mages who wished to walk bodily in the Fade, let alone non-mages.

“Right,” she said grimly.  “Let’s rock and roll.”

It was one of her foreign sayings, but the meaning was clear even to the Wardens.  The warriors and rogues drew their weapons, and the Solas and Clarel cast barriers on the party.  Then the approached the Rift.

It was open and active, the edges of the split in the Veil humming with magic and wild energies, throwing green light over everything.  The Anchor hissed on the Inquisitor’s hand, resonating with the Rift as they drew closer and closer.

She hesitated briefly at the threshold, then crossed over and into the Rift.  Solas, next in line after her, strode through with carefully maintained serenity.  The Fade no longer felt like the home it had been to him for centuries; the Veil had twisted its energy in upon itself, souring it.  And with the Nightmare demon having built its nest just on the other side of the Veil at this spot, the atmosphere was even more darkened.

He felt magic fizz against his skin, and closed his eyes against the nausea-inducing vertigo of crossing the Veil.  When he opened his eyes, he was in the Fade, but he could hardly rejoice in the homecoming.  No when he could see the damage he himself had wrought there, by creating the Veil.

He kept vigilant as he waited for the rest of their party to cross over, watching for demons or spirits.  He could see wisps in the distance, but nothing else.  That didn’t mean, however, that there  _ wasn’t  _ anything more out there.

“ _ Mon créateur, _ ” said one of the Wardens behind him, sounding sick.  “The Calling, it is so loud here.”

“It’s the Nightmare,” said the Inquisitor.  “Don’t worry, we’ll shut it up.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” replied the Warden.

“My name is Lyra.  If we’re going to be fighting with each other, I’d like you all to use my name,” she said.  “Are we all here?  Excellent.  Let’s not waste time.  Solas?”

“I believe the Nightmare demon’s lair lies that way, Inquisitor,” he said, gesturing.  She nodded.

“Let’s move out, then.  Keep on your guard.  Constant vigilance.”  A smirk twisted her lips, but it fell away quickly as her gaze traced over their surroundings.  The Nightmare had been busy, and had glut itself on the fear of a fortress full of Wardens; it was strong, and had shaped this area of the Fade to its liking.  Sharp, malevolent angles threatened at every turn, and dimly lit statues of weeping slaves and fierce predatory birds loomed over them.  He could almost believe he heard screaming in the distance.

They did not get very far before they came upon the first of the obstacles between them and the Nightmare.

Solas sensed them just before they appeared all around them, dark skittering shapes that resolved as they came closer.  Fearlings, taking the form of something dark from each of their memories, thoughts, fears.  To Solas, they looked like gaunt, hollow-eyed Elvhen.

“ _ Lethallin,”  _ they whispered in sibilant hisses.   _ “Harellan.  Undalas em’an.” _

He threw fire at them, knowing both the truth and the lie that they were.

With their numbers and skills, the Inquisitor’s party made short work of the creatures.  When the last Fearling had dissolved to mist, they continued on.

It wasn’t long before the Nightmare itself began to take interest in their progression, speaking to them directly, calling upon their fears.  

“You think that pain will make you stronger?” It asked, malevolent humor rumbling in its voice.  “What fool filled your mind with such drivel?  The only one who grows stronger from your fear is  _ me _ .”

“Wow, okay Bane,” muttered the Inquisitor.  She put on an odd accent, mockingly.  “‘You think the darkness is your friend?  I was born in the dark.’  Gonna go try to beat up Batman now?”

The Nightmare laughed, the Fade reverberating with its mirth.  “You put on a good show, Inquisitor, but every ounce of you is filled with fear.”

“Also rage.  Don’t forget the rage,” she said, flippant.  The Nightmare only laughed, and switched targets.

“ _ Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din _ .”  Its voice was sly, insinuating.

“ _ Banal nadas _ ,” Solas replied calmly.  They dispatched another group of Fearlings.

“Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that all your ‘faith’ has been for naught.”

“Tch.” Cassandra’s only response was a disgusted click of her tongue.  She did not deign to give any other reply.  Solas found himself approving of the Seeker’s confident bearing.

“There is nothing like a Grey Warden,” the demon said.  “Such a delicious mix of fear and fatalism.  Will anyone miss you, when you die?  Perhaps not until the next Blight, when they finally notice.”

The Wardens carried on as if they could not hear.  The Nightmare tried a more personal approach: “How many have you lost, Clarel?  How many dead through your failures, your foolishness?”

“I will answer for that, but not to you,” Clarel snarled.

“How about you stop hiding behind words and your minions, demon?” demanded the Inquisitor suddenly.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were afraid, yourself.”

“Perhaps not the best plan, to taunt the demon,” Solas murmured, though the Nightmare did fall silent.

“He started it,” she said lightly, though he could see the tension in her shoulders.

“I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

Another wave of Fearlings distracted them momentarily.  As usual, once they had been dealt with, the Inquisitor began to drive them onward.  Except…

“You must turn back!”

“Most Holy?!” Cassandra gasped, gaping at the spirit that appeared before them.  There were other gasps and exclamations from the other Andrastians in their group.

“Interesting,” Solas said quietly, narrowing his eyes at the apparition.  It did appear to be the Divine, Justinia V.

“You must turn back.  The Nightmare plans to trick you, trap you, and pass through the Rift you opened,” it said in an old woman’s Orlesian-accented voice.

“Solas?” asked the Inquisitor, squinting at the figure.

“A spirit, Inquisitor,” he replied.  “Whether she is the Divine, some fragment of the Divine, or simply a spirit mimicking her form, I cannot tell for certain.”

“Why should we trust you?” Clarel asked suspiciously.

“Whether you trust me or not, you can see the truth,” the spirit of the Divine said, and pointed behind them, down the slope they had been climbing.

“Fuck!” the Inquisitor said.  “Quick, everyone, back!”

The large, chitinous bulk of the Nightmare demon lumbered below, toward the distant bright beacon of the Rift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the elvhen is straight from the game, but some was pieced together with the help of FenxShiral's lexicon here on ao3. I probably butchered the grammar, though.  
> "Lethallin. Harellan. Undalas em’an." -- Brother. Betrayer. You killed us.  
> "Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din." -- Speak, betrayer. Your victory is nothing. Your pride is your death.  
> "Banal nadas." -- Nothing is inevitable.


	49. Start

**Prompt: Start**

**Word count: 1,866**

* * *

It didn’t take long, after the Inquisitor and her party disappeared into the Fade, for the demons to start pressing to escape the Rift.  This suited Dasha just fine; she was more suited to action than waiting.  Give her something to kill over something to watch any day.

The Rift crackled threateningly, and spat out another handful of Pride and Rage demons.  She crowed a laugh, spinning her blades adroitly in her hands.  “Come and get some!”

She threw herself with abandon into the fight, content simply to let her world narrow down to the moment, the dodge and parry and attack.  If her mind was full of the fight, then she wasn’t wasting time worrying about something she had no control over.

Laughing, Dasha palmed a grenade from her belt-pouch, backing up before lobbing it directly into the face of a Pride demon.  The glass phial shattered, and alchemical ice washed down the creature’s rock-like skin.  It bellowed in fury, one clawed hand rising to paw at it’s frozen-shut eyes, the other swiping out in broad arcs in front of it.  Dasha grinned toothily and danced inside its guard, slashing deeply at its weakest points—hamstrings and armpits.  It crashed to its knees as she cut the tendons that kept its legs working, and dark ichor poured from its wounds.  Arrows from the Inquisition and Warden archers ringing the periphery of the Rift finished the job.

Dasha turned to seek out a new target, but there were none left in this wave.  Breathing deeply to slow her adrenaline-quick heart, she sheathed her blades and cast a practiced eye over the courtyard.  So far, their losses had been light: A dozen or so wounded, and only two dead.  For it having been several hours since the Inquisitor had ventured into the Fade, that wasn’t bad.

“Squadron Four, switch out with Squadron Eight!” Cullen shouted from nearby.  Dasha turned to watch him cross the courtyard to her.  Around him, the soldiers who had been on watch for the last four hours made their way to the back lines, as the fresh squadron took up their places.  “Hawke.  You’ve been out here since the start; you should have switched out hours ago.”

She shrugged.  “I’m fresh as a daisy, Knight-Captain.  No need.”

“Commander,” he corrected her stiffly.

“Hmph.  I’m fresh as a daisy,  _ Templar _ .”  She knew he was trying to change— _ was  _ changing, if Varric’s description of the Inquisition was anything to go by—but she wouldn’t let him forget.  Could never let him forget.

“You need rest as much as any of the soldiers.” He didn’t argue with her, but there was something weary in his voice that might have made her feel guilty in anyone else.

“I know my limits,” she said, dismissive.

“I hope you do,” he said, and for once there was that old familiar steel in his tone, that same confidence he’d used so often when speaking with her in Kirkwall, “A tired or distracted soldier on the field gets herself or other people killed.  Don’t play with the lives of my soldiers, Hawke.”

“I’m not  _ playing _ , Knight-Captain,” she spat, and turned away from him.  She heard him growl an irritated  _ Maker’s breath _ behind her, but ignored it.  There were only a handful of people who could chastise Dasha Hawke, and he was not one of them.

The Rift crackled, and soon enough she was losing herself in the violence again.

Hours passed and night fell, and the courtyard filled with torches to light the killing field around the Rift, sour smoke from the burning pitch drifting soundless through the cool night air.  It got cold in the desert at night, something Dasha had never expected.  It chilled the sweat that had soaked the clothes under her armor.

She was getting tired, and would have to quit the field soon.  The thought brought a grimace to her face.  At least with all the exertion, she’d sleep deeply tonight, too deeply for the nightmares to touch her.

The Rift began to hum, a low sound that she could almost feel vibrating her bones.  She looked up at it, eyes narrowing.  It was glowing brighter, too, different from the sparking light it threw off when demons were pressing against it.

“Form up!” Cullen shouted, striding forward with his sword drawn.  His armor was scratched and streaked with soot from fighting Rage demons.  The ichor that bled from demons disappeared along with their bodies, but the damage from their attacks remained.  Cullen was also streaked with blood, though Dasha didn’t think any of it was his own; she’d seen him a number of times hauling wounded soldiers and Wardens from the fight, so it was probably theirs.  “This may be the Inquisitor’s party returning, or a more powerful demon coming through.  Stand ready!”

Dasha spun her daggers idly as they watched the Rift pulse with light, the humming increasing in volume and intensity.  Just when it got too bright to look at and the thrumming noise enough to hurt, there was a sharp crack like a tree branch breaking and then there were small figures tumbling out of the green fissure.

“The Inquisitor!” someone shouted, and yes, there she was, flame hair straggling out of its braid.  A few more figures fell from the Rift, and then the bald elf was beside the stunned Inquisitor.

“Close it!” he shouted.  “You must close it!”

Dasha caught a glimpse of her pale, dazed face, and then the elf blocked her view, seizing the Inquisitor’s marked hand and lifting it to the Rift.  Closing it seemed very similar to opening it, Dasha thought, as the energies whined and twisted around them.  The Inquisitor screamed, something more than simple strain in her voice this time, and there was a deafening  _ boom  _ as the Rift closed.  In the sudden, ringing silence, the Inquisitor’s wrenching sobs were loud.

“The Calling,” someone said, voice bright and surprised.  “The Calling!  I can’t hear it anymore!”

Suddenly, there was a clamor, many voices rising in joy and relief.

“They’ve done it!”

“The Calling has stopped!”

“Thank the Maker!”

And then, as everyone began to settle...

“Where is Clarel?” a voice asked.  “Where is the Warden-Commander?  Where is Warden-Constable Picard?”

There was stillness again, but the Inquisitor was leaning heavily on Cullen’s shoulder, still looking dazed and weak, unable to answer.  Stroud and the other Warden stepped forward.

“The Nightmare demon that was preying upon us has been stopped,” said the Warden… Constable, Dasha thought, squinting at his uniform.  He had a Fereldan accent.  “But, in order to free us, Warden-Commander Clarel and Warden-Constable Picard have given their lives.”

He lifted a fist to the gryphon crest embossed on his cuirass, and that was apparently enough of a signal, for the whole host of Wardens mimicked the gesture, and their voices intoned as one: “In death: sacrifice.”

“Before she died, the Warden-Commander gave orders,” went on the Fereldan.  “She has charged Warden Stroud to take up her position until such time as Weisshaupt can formally assign Orlais a new Commander.  She expressed trust that he would lead us with the same clarity of purpose and wisdom that he has always demonstrated.”

_ Good,  _ Dasha thought,  _ Stroud’s not an idiot like these dupes who almost blood-sacrificed themselves into slavery.  Which, I guess, is what Clarel meant. _

Stroud stepped forward then.  “The Inquisitor has informed me that Corypheus holds some sway over the Wardens, some ability to influence and manipulate us.  Because of the danger, and because of the losses we have already suffered in this conflict, the best course of action seems to be a withdrawal.  The Inquisition assures us that they have the ability and the manpower to deal with Corypheus without our direct assistance.  We will not be needed on the front lines of this fight.  Instead, they ask that we continue as we always have, keeping watch on the Deep Roads and holding back the Darkspawn that manage to make it to the surface.  The best place for the Wardens is as far from Corypheus’ influence as possible.”

There were some rumblings of discontent then.  But the Inquisitor limped forward, trying to pull herself up as straight as possible.  Her arm looked broken to Dasha, but there was a mage keeping step with her, hands glowing with creation magic.  “Let me assure you that the Wardens have lost none of the respect I held for them.  I understand that what you have done here was intended to be in service to your duty.  Until the Blights have passed and the Taint is washed from Thedas for good, the Wardens will be needed.  This is not your fight.”

She lifted her left hand, the Mark sparking a shimmering green in her palm.  Her voice turned fervent, trembling with emotion.  “This is  _ my  _ fight.  I claim it.  I will avenge myself on Corypheus.  I will avenge the Wardens.  The Divine.  The mages and the templars who died searching for peace at the Conclave.  I will avenge all who have lost their lives in Corypheus’ foolhardy bid for godhood.  This is  _ my  _ fight.  And I will end it.”

Dasha had to admit it was a great speech.  It certainly got the Wardens and the Inquisition troops cheering.  She leaned in the shadows, watching the mage healer urge the red-haired woman to sit on some nearby steps.  Cullen lingered by her side, speaking to her in a low voice.  Debriefing or some-such boring business.

“What I wouldn’t give for a tavern out here,” Varric grumbled, appearing by Dasha’s side.  “I need a drink.”

“I bet,” she replied.  “Didn’t you say after the Feynriel incident that it was terribly unnatural for a dwarf to be in the Fade and that you’d never get close to that sort of bullshit again?”

“Of course I did,” Varric replied.  “Because I’m not Void-taken  _ insane _ .  But it seems like fate had other ideas.”

“I think the Maker’s playing a joke on you, Varric.”

“I’m not looking forward to the punchline, if He is.”

Dasha snorted.  They were silent for a while, and when Varric spoke again, his voice was softer.  “What are you going to do now, Hawke?”

She shifted from foot to foot, frowning.  “Keep looking.  She wasn’t here, which, really, I’m glad for.  But…”

“Sweetness is smart, Hawke; I’m sure she’s fine.”

Dasha’s hands clenched at her sides.  If only she’d been better, realized the Wardens were in danger faster.  If she’d only sent Aveline out to find Bethany sooner, then maybe…

“Yeah, probably,” she agreed.  “But you know me; I can’t just let my sister go off and have fun without me.  It’d be so unfair.”

“Sure,” Varric said.  “Hey… You know I’ve got connections to the merchants’ guild…”

Dasha grunted acknowledgement.

“And they’ve got connections just about everywhere.  I could drop a line, if you wanted.”

She thought about it, sucking her lip.  It seemed unlikely that the Chantry would be trying to bring her in to answer for Kirkwall, after everything else that’s happened.  The world sort of seemed to have moved on.  Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to leave leads lying around.  “Yeah.  Yeah, thanks Varric.  That’d be real helpful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably no update this Thursday; end of the semester craziness is crazy.


	50. Seeing Red*

**Prompt: Seeing Red***

**Word count: 1,785**

* * *

 

“You already know the songs,” Cole told her.  She tried not to get angry with the kid, but really, that was not helpful at all.

“I have a narrowed list, yes,” she explained again, “but I’m having a hard time picking just a couple from it.  I… it really matters to me, what I choose for him.”

“Just for him, songs that need to mean something,” Cole whispered, plucking the words from her mind, no doubt.  “Yes, but you  _ do  _ know them.”

“I…” she sighed, rubbed her forehead.  “I feel like this a riddle or something.  Do you really have nothing to help me?  No hints?  Which of these do  _ you  _ like?”

“I like them all, but they aren’t for me.  They’re for him.”  The kid looked confused.  Fair enough, so was Piper.

“You’re killing me, here, kid,” she groaned, desk squeaking as she leaned on it.  

“No I’m not!”

“Relax, it’s okay.  That’s just a phrase.  Sorry, Cole, I didn’t mean to confuse you,” she soothed, straightening immediately at his distress.  “It just means that you’re not making this easy.”

Cole subsided, but remained a little twitchy with the misunderstanding.  She’d have to watch her language around him; there were a lot more colloquialisms that might upset him.  She made a show of inspecting her list.  There were twenty song titles on it, things that she’d thought about singing for Cullen, as she had promised so long ago.

_ As soon as he gets back, I’m doing it.  I’ve really waited too long, and I want to sing for him.  But  _ what  _ should I sing?  There’s too many options. _

“What about Amazing Grace?  I mean, it’s pretty, sounds good acapella, and is very meaningful… Eh.  But it’s… Well, even if nobody else would know it, it still feels like it would be trite.  It’s been used too often in my, uh, homeland.  It feels… faded, worn out.”  She frowned, tapping her fingers on her pursed lips.  “No, not that one.”

She squinted thoughtfully.  “Gaudete is beautiful, but it’s in Latin, which I gather sounds a lot like Tevene… Probably don’t want to get into that conversation.  And besides, it sounds better with multi-voice polyphony.  Same with Miserere.  Damn.  Stupid early church and their stupid latin fixation.”

“Ohh,” Cole sighed.  “It is beautiful.”

Piper glanced up, surprised.  “Can—can you hear it in my head?”

Cole nodded, his eyes hazy and unfocused; listening, she presumed, to the music in her thoughts.  She watched him, wistful.  Maybe at some point she  _ could  _ have that conversation, navigate the explanation that Latin isn’t Tevene, it just sounds like it, what a crazy-random-happenstance.  Maybe she could get some people together and train a choir?  It would be so so so so so wonderful.  Harmony and polyphony and chords…

“It is a little different,” Cole said, suddenly becoming more present.  Piper hummed questioningly, scanning her list again.  “Latin.  It’s a little different.  And it’s not written the same.”

“Oh.”  Piper paused.  “Well, maybe that would help?  I don’t know, I’m not really prepped to deal with all that right now.  Maybe I’ll talk it over with Lyra and we’ll come up with a plan.”

“Sisters, allies, always supported,” Cole nodded, and lapsed into silence again, perching unmoving on the foot board of Piper’s bed like a weird crow.  Piper tucked a wry smile away.

“Hm.  How Can I Keep From Singing… Oh, that one has definite possibilities… though, it’s kind of cheating, isn’t it?  Like Amazing Grace, it’s kind of been secularized… And I promised to share religious songs with him, since he was curious… Well, I can sing the religious version. It’s nice and hopeful… I like it.”

“A song that feels like how  _ he _ feels.  How can I keep from singing when I’m with him?”

Piper’s cheeks warmed with a blush.  “Uh, Cole, could you maybe keep that hush-hush?  I’m not really ready to acknowledge those thoughts.”

“But you want to say it,” he said, confused again.

“Yeah, I’m just not there yet.”

“But he wants to say it, too.”

The blush burned hotter.  “Oh, god, please stop.  Emotions, too many emotions.”

“Yes,” Cole said, softer.  “Joy, worry, nervousness…”

“Moving on,” Piper said almost pleadingly, pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks.  She was sure she was bright red.  Cole brightened.

“Time to sing.”

“Huh?”  Piper’s unvoiced question was answered by a pounding on her door.

“Little skald!  Are you within?”

“A moment!” she called back to Anneli, one of the Avvar women.  Cole had disappeared.  She stood and limped to the door, opening it to the excited woman’s scarred face.  She’d fought with a bear one winter, earning herself three parallel furrows dug into her cheek and throat, and a cloak of bear fur.  Anneli smiled, showing off her crooked eyeteeth.

“Little skald, you are late to the singing,” she said in her lovely accented Trade-tongue.  “We are waiting for you; come.”

Piper jolted, glancing toward the candle-clock, stricken.  “I’m sorry, I lost track of time!”

“We are waiting,” Anneli repeated.  “Come!”

Piper grabbed her cane and followed the Avvar woman to the roof of the barracks—the building was tucked against the fortress wall, and the roof was accessible by the ramparts, and the Avvar had claimed the space for their camp.  They apparently found their own tents more preferable than the guest quarters Josie had put aside for them.

The whole hunting party was there, clustered around the main campfire.  An iron kettle with their special Avvar ‘tea’ was hung over the flames.  The stuff was made with some sort of bark, and it tasted more like burnt, unsweetened coffee than anything else.

They enfolded Piper into their company, someone slinging a pelt around her shoulders to ‘protect her fragile Lowlander skin’ from the cold.  She made an unmistakably rude gesture in response to the needling, but cuddled her nose into the fur anyway.  Cole was already there, the Avvar pretty darn comfortable with the presence of a spirit.  As far as Piper could tell, they held spirits as guiding forces, kind of like gods, but not exactly gods in the way she thought of them.  They respected them, gave thanks to them, asked them for help, and appeased them… but they didn’t really  _ worship  _ them, per say.

_ “What will you sing for us?”  _ Vilgot asked in Avvar (Swedish to Piper’s ears).  She smiled.  She’d been maintaining her friendship with the group since they’d brought her home to Skyhold, and singing for them frequently.  It was the one chance she really had to break out her love of scandinavian folk ballads for an audience that could completely appreciate them for both music  _ and _ story.  She didn’t have all the right instruments, but had played them Herr Mannelig and I Riden Så.  They had eaten them up, hanging on every note.

_ “Today’s for something a little newer,”  _ she said.   _ “A story-song like the others, but not hundreds of years old.  Do you have my lute and a drum?” _

Someone produced the instruments from somewhere—at some point a fair number of her instruments had migrated from the Rest to the Avvar camp—and Piper settled herself on a hunk of wood to tune the lute and warm up.  Conscripting one of the younger Avvar, she coached him into playing a simple drum base line.  Then, internalizing the rhythm and pace, put her hands to her lute.

_ “Den flickan mötte varg i skogen, _

_ Och vargen sa dig vill jag ha. _

 

_ Och flickan nekade och tveka, _

_ Men så tog hon mod till sig och så hon sa, _

_ Då må du mig vara trogen, _

_ Och aldrig vilja ha nån ann. _

 

_ Och vargen log och hand han tog, _

_ Och sa att vargakärleken är sann. _

 

_ En varman hand mot kallan loven, _

_ Jag ska göra dig till min.” _

It was a song about a wolf who loved a girl, and asked her to be with him.  She promised to do so, if he was loyal to her, and so he took her away to his den.  But the girl betrayed him, leaving him for another.  The wolf killed the man, but the girl did not want to return, and so set her village on fire to drive him away with the flames.  It ended with them dying, together, in the flames.  Really sad and dark, but so were a lot of folk ballads, really.

_ “Hör vargar yla i vinterkyla, _

_ Jag skall göra dig till, _

_ Jag skall göra dig till, _

_ Jag ska göra dig till min.” _

There was a respectful moment of silence from the Avvar, as they let the last note decay completely.  Anneli looked about ready to burst, grinning wide and bright.  Another hit with them, Piper supposed.  She thought they might like Vargaflicka; it was a lovely song, haunting.

“The wolf girl should not have gone with him if she did not want to,” Vilgot said disapprovingly.  “The wolf was probably host to a god; she dishonored him, and herself, by leaving.”

“They were together in the end,” nodded Kjersta.  “Her word had to be kept, but she chose the worst way to keep it.”

“You aren’t going to leave your wolf, are you, little skald?” Edden asked slyly.  Piper flushed and opened her mouth to retort, but Anneli interrupted before she could.

“Ah, do you know nothing, Edden?  That one’s no wolf; what she’s got herself is a red-lion!”

“Oh my god,” Piper moaned, covering her face with her hands.  The press of her fingers made white and red starbursts on the back of her eyelids.  “Why does everyone feel the need to tease me about this?”

“A pair well-matched and blessed by Rilla brings joy and prosperity to the Hold,” Vilgot told her, patting her back with a heavy hand.  “And it is clear that you are well-matched with your Inquisition’s ‘Commander’.”

“Thanks,” Piper said, muffled by her hands and not very sincere.

“You will feel better when he returns,” soothed Anneli.

Piper’s heart tripped, because, yeah.  That was probably true.  She missed him, wanted more time with him to start this… whatever it was that lay between them.  And his return would also mean  _ Lyra’s  _ return.  Her sister must have been out of her mind while Piper was missing.  The way people reacted to her return, the things they said and did not say, made her think Lyra did not handle it particularly well.  She wanted to see them both.  See  _ all _ of them, her friends who had been gone when she’d finally returned to Skyhold.  The days until they and the army returned from the Western Approach dragged by.

She’d gotten letters, from Lyra mostly, but it wasn’t the same.

“I’ll feel better when they all return,” she told the Avvar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More songs! Amazing Grace is ubiquitous, it needs no explanation.   
> Gaudete is a ye olde Christmas carol: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Ztsq8rNzVg  
> Miserere is a hymn based on a Psalm (there's an absurd story attached to it, because Mozart was a little shit-stirring showoff): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IA88AS6Wy_4  
> How Can I Keep From Singing will make another appearance.  
> Herr Mannelig is an old Swedish folk song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2kc570KwUs  
> I Riden Så is a traditional song from Swedish-speaking Finnish folk: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MPR56PXiLqY  
> Vargaflicka is a song by Swedish artist Loke (AKA Måns Klang): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ee4HF_py-XQ


	51. Judgment

**Prompt: Judgment**

**Word count: 1,186**

* * *

_ She was not there,  _ Leliana wrote in a swift, even hand.  She left the short missive unsigned, trusting the message would be obvious to its recipient.  She rolled it and placed it into the tiny tube, and then approached one of the nest boxes stacked in the cote.  The raven inside tilted its head at her, quorking softly in inquiry.

“Come, Jethro,” she said, holding out a gauntleted wrist.  The raven hopped up, talons digging into the tough leather of her glove.  The corvid clicked as Leliana affixed the message tube to its proffered leg, fluffing its feather and rustling its wings in excitement for the job.  Of all the ravens, Jethro was the most enthusiastic, but Leliana suspected it was because Alistair spoiled the thing.  He’d always been a soft touch with animals, and had snuck Elissa’s mabari treats whenever he could, while they were traveling.  She’d witnessed him doing the same to the cats at Kinloch Tower, the nugs in Orzammar, and the horses at Arl Eamon’s estate in Denerim.  She was almost entirely certain he was giving her raven peanuts every time the bird bore a message to the castle.

She didn’t really begrudge him the quirk.  It was reassuring in a way, that the crown had not hardened him completely, had not changed him too much from the sweet-natured man she’d known during the Blight.

He likely would be mad with worry for Elissa, who had bizarrely been incommunicado for years now as she chased illusive rumors of a cure for the Wardens.  They did not even know where she was; only where she wasn’t.  When Alistair hears about Adamant and what had happened there, he would wonder if she had been part of it, if she had protested and been silenced.   Leliana could at least reassure him in that.  Elissa had not been at Adamant, and had never been, as far as they could tell.  None of the Wardens there had seen her.

“Go, Jethro,” Leliana said softly to the bird, launching him from her wrist on the cold walkway outside the raven cote.  She watched his flight until he was no more than a dark smudge against the sky.  She exhaled, breath billowing out in the cold air.  She was not…  _ worried _ , per say.  Elissa not been at Adamant, so she was safe from that, at least.  And she wouldn’t have answered the Calling, false or otherwise, without Alistair; Leliana knew how seriously they both took the pledge that they’d swore during the Blight, to go down together in the end.  The dangerous Elissa faced were the same any traveler faced, and she was well-equipped to deal with them.  So no, Leliana was not  _ worried.   _ But she wondered, sometimes.  If she  _ was _ safe, if she was well.

The signal horn from the sentry outpost on the far side of Skyhold’s main bridge sounded, echoing off the mountains around the fortress.  The Inquisitor’s party had returned, at last, from Adamant.  Leliana rounded the tower so that she could see the bridge and the mass of soldiers marching down it, armor glinting in the cool sunlight.  The red, black, and gold banners of the Inquisition were bright against the dull stone and snow.

Leliana made her way down to the main courtyard, rather curious to see the reunion between the Daughters... and between Cullen and Piper.  Their shy romance was only just budding, and it was something of great interest to many members of the Inquisition.  It was a testament to how well Cullen led his soldiers that they would cheer him on—albeit quietly behind his back—and how well-loved Piper was that they would be so invested in his success wooing her.  Leliana expected there would be a great number of people loitering in the courtyard, trying to be subtle.

The first of the riders were coming through the gate, and Piper was waiting impatiently to the side with her dogs when Leliana made it to the foot of the stairs.  The three dogs started barking excitedly, and the Inquisitor, riding at the fore, tumbled off of her horse with a happy shout.  She ran to her sister, who limped forward as fast as she could, and they met in a terrific collision of an embrace.  Laughing and crying, they sank to the ground, where the mabari mobbed them.  The dogs had grown to their full adult size in the months past, which on the petite Daughters, meant their heads were waist-high.  With the two women kneeling, it meant that they disappeared entirely under the hounds.

Some of the soldiers started up a cheer, filling Skyhold with a hundred voices celebrating the Inquisitor’s victorious return and the reunion of the Daughters of Andraste.  The pair stood, mabari gamboling, tongues lolling, around them.  They looked like something out of a Fereldan legend—Alamarri coloring (their hair gleamed, fire and gold, under the sun), Piper garbed in elegantly cut furs, Lyra in fur and armor, a pack of hounds about them.  Leliana caught the starry-eyed gazes of many of the soldiers resting on the sight they made.

Cullen stepped up beside Leliana, stretching his neck and shoulders after the long ride.  

“News?” he asked quietly, but she noticed that his eyes were also fixed on the sisters, now smiling and waving off the crowd as the cheering died down.

“Nothing pressing,” she replied.  “Congratulations on the successful mission.  Captain Rylen reports that Venatori activity has largely ceased since you cleared out Echoback.”

He gave a short nod.  “Good.”

There was a pause, then Leliana asked: “How was she?”

“Better.  It helped that I could tell her how Lady Piper was doing, personally.”  To his credit, he managed not to blush as he said this.  But perhaps he did not catch the implication.  “Some of the lightness has returned to her, but truthfully, I do not think the matter of Erimond and the Wardens was mishandled.  Maybe I am blinded by what I was taught as a templar, but it does seem to have been the best choice she could make from a host of not ideal choices.”

“I cannot disagree,” Leliana admitted.  “However distasteful I find Tranquility.”

If Cullen had a response, it was forgotten as Lyra and Piper swept past them, presumably heading for their shared quarters and a quieter setting in which to catch-up.  Piper slowed long enough to catch Cullen’s hand in hers, her slim fingers small and bare against his gloved hand as she squeezed wordlessly.  She smiled at him, something private in her eyes that Leliana pretended not to see.  

“Welcome home, Commander,” she said softly.  Cullen’s face pinked, but he smiled back at her, his fingers curling more carefully around hers before he released her and she continued up the stairs into Skyhold proper.

Leliana considered teasing, then discarded the idea.  He was already flustered enough, trying to hide his smile behind his arm as he rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat.

“To work?” Leliana suggested, deadpan.  Well, perhaps she would tease him a little.

Cullen coughed, reddened further, and stammered: “I, uh, yes.  Quite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you guys ever looked at 'judgment' and thought "wait, is that spelled right?" The run of 'dgm' looks so weird...
> 
> If you celebrate Christmas, Happy Christmas! If you don't, I hope you're enjoying the day!


	52. Dreamer*

**Prompt: Dreamer***

**Word count: 2,247**

* * *

 

Riding for days on horseback and withdrawing from lyrium was a terrible combination.  Every muscle in Cullen’s body ached, and every joint creaked with strain.  A headache pushed and pulled on his mind, distracting him from the reports he was trying to catch up on.  Sighing, he dropped the parchment to his desk and massaged his temples with his fingertips, closing his eyes against the needles of light from his candles.

He’d tried soaking out the aches, spending entirely too long in Skyhold’s expansive bathhouse, doing his best to ignore the strong smell of the hot spring’s waters.  It had helped, but it felt like all of the aches had seeped back in during his walk back to his office, leaving him right back where he’d started.

Perhaps he should call it a night, he mused wearily.  If he tried to push himself too hard, the headache would only worsen and he’d end up having to redo his work later, anyway.  However…

He sighed a little and leaned back in his chair, glancing toward the door that lead to the keep.

...He had to admit that he was waiting; he had yet to properly greet Piper since returning to Skyhold that morning.  He’d seen her, and they’d clasped hands briefly before she’d closeted herself with her sister, but he hadn’t seen her since.  It was not that he was annoyed or upset about it—this was the sisters’ reunion, and they had much to tell each other—but he was disappointed.  He was hoping that she would make an appearance after they were done, though he wasn’t sure when that would be.  The sun had already ducked behind the mountain peaks surrounding Skyhold, and he was beginning to suspect it wouldn’t be until tomorrow that he’d be able to see his… his…

What could he call her?  He wanted to court her, but he hadn’t yet declared to her.  He supposed she was simply, as his mother might have said, his ‘sweetheart’.

Cullen stood, stiffly, and winced as a vertebra in his back popped.  He’d clearly spent too much time leaning over his work with poor posture.  He stretched a moment, then began unbuckling his armor.  It didn’t take him very long, and his mind wandered as his hands went about the familiar task.

Perhaps in the morning he would send a note, asking her to stop by...

Or was a note too formal, too much like an order, a summons?  Perhaps if he worded it differently… But then was that an abuse of his runners, sending a personal note like that?  Maybe he should just try to go to her…

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes.  He was like a schoolboy, awkward and nervous.  Nothing like the studious and dutiful Commander he was supposed to be.

“Put you at the fore of an army and you’re fine,” he muttered under his breath as he arranged his armor on the stand in the corner of his office, “but put you in front of a beautiful woman and you fall apart.”

He locked the doors and was walking to the ladder to his loft when a soft knock sounded on one of them.  He froze a moment, surprised and suddenly a little nervous, then shook it off and went to open the door.

Piper stood on the other side, looking uncertain.  Her expression relaxed when she saw him, a smile growing.  “Oh!  You’re still awake; good.  I—Oh.  Were you getting ready for bed?  Sorry.”

Her eyes lingered on his chest, bare of armor.  He glanced nervously down, hoping the light gambeson wasn’t too stained.  It wasn’t pristine—a garment meant to be worn under armor would never be that—but it wasn’t too bad.  Was she just staring at… him?

“Ah,” he said belatedly, clearing his throat and standing aside to let her in.  “I was, but I’m glad you stopped by.  I was hoping to see you…”

She smiled again.  “Oh.  Good.”

He couldn’t break eye contact as he shut the door behind her.  The latch clicked, and they stood staring, a current of  _ something  _ growing between them.  Her lips parted and his eyes dropped to them.  She noticed, and dragged in an unsteady breath.

“Cullen,” she breathed, pleading.

Her mouth was soft and warm under his, her hands twisting into the thick, padded cloth of his gambeson as the clack of her cane falling to the floor echoed off the stone walls, ignored by them both.

“I missed you,” she whimpered against him, and his hands tightened on her reflexively at the rush of emotion that swept through him at the words, the desperate tone.

“Maker’s breath,” he groaned, and tore himself away.  He moved his hands off her arse and to the more appropriate locations of her waist and the delicate line of her jaw.  His thumb cheated in and brushed over her lips.  “You are so beautiful.”

She shivered, and yearned into his touch.  “I, um,” she said, obviously struggling to catch the scattered threads of her thoughts.  He bend to kiss her again, lightly.  “I wanted to… to… Mm, Cullen.  I wanted to sing for you.”

“What?” Cullen mumbled, not really comprehending.  His attention was taken up more by the way she trembled against him, clutching fistfuls of his shirt… He tucked his hands under her rump, and lifted.  She squeaked, breaking the kiss, as he carried her the few steps to his desk and sat her down on the edge.

“Cu—” Their lips met again, and he swallowed whatever she was going to say.  She moaned, mouth opening to his tongue.  Cullen felt as if he were on fire, as if he  _ were _ fire.  Burning, hungry.  His hand cradled the back of Piper’s head as he kissed her deeply, chasing the little noises she made.  Her mouth moved with his and she leaned into him, making Cullen’s heart speed.  Their breaths were hot between them, a brush of moist air across his jaw, across the tender skin of his throat as she buried her face at the crook of his neck and clung to him as he kissed the curve of her ear.

She shook hard and gave a cry as he scraped along the tendon of her neck with his teeth.  It was louder than he thought either of them intended, and startled him a little from the haze he was in.  He pulled away, gasping raggedly.  Piper blinked at him, her pupils dilated wide, lips plump and red from his attentions.  They trembled as he watched, her tongue peeking out to wet them, and Cullen felt lightheaded.

“Andraste’s mercy,” he gasped, staggering back and falling into his chair.  They stared at each other, panting.  A little bit of shame, of worry, crept into Cullen then.  Had he been too forceful?  She’d been trying to tell him something, hadn’t she.  He—

She slid off the desk and into his lap, straddling him on the cramped chair.  His arms went around her automatically, keeping her steady.  She kissed him fiercely, his head thumping against the back of the chair as she scratched her nails through the scruff on his jaw.

“Oh god, Cullen,” she groaned against his mouth, shivering as he ran his hands up and down her back.  Her fingers pushed into his hair and she pulled back to look him in the face.  “I’ve never felt like this for anyone before.”

“I never expected to find someone, to find  _ you _ , here,” he said in response, voice low and soft.

“Me neither,” she whispered.  “What I feel for you, it’s… I’m a little scared of how strong it is.”

“Forgive me,” he said, withdrawing slightly.

“No,” she said, holding on to him, “you don’t have anything to apologize for.  I… I wanted this.  But, um.  Maybe we should slow down?”

“Yes, of course,” Cullen agreed automatically.  “Whatever you want.”

Her face was pink and she seemed to be nervously smoothing his collar out against his neck.  “It’s just… I really like kissing you, and when you hold me, but… I’m a little overwhelmed right now.  I—Like I said, I’ve never felt this way before.  I hardly know what I’m doing.”

Cullen caught her hand in one of his, and wrapped his other arm around her waist to keep her from falling backwards as he leaned forward a little.  “We can take this as slow as you wish; I don’t want you to be afraid.”

She shuffled in against him, hiding her face in his neck, presumably from embarrassment.  Her words were muffled against his skin: “‘M not  _ afraid _ , exactly.”

She was an innocent.  That explained many things to Cullen, and reassured him—his own experience was one very brief interlude with another templar, and that had been so long ago and in another life; he could barely count it.  It was reassuring that they would, more or less, be learning together.

They curled around each other in the chair, content to simply hold the other in their arms in silence.  Cullen closed his eyes and tried to commit the feeling to memory.  The weight of her in his lap, the warmth of her, the sharp press of her nose against the pulsepoint in his throat.  After a moment, he realized she was softly humming and shifted his head slightly to hear better.  A moment later, she began singing.

_ “My life flows on in endless song _

_ Above earth’s lamentations. _

_ I hear the sweet, though far-off hymn, _

_ That hails a new creation. _

 

_ No storm can shake my inmost calm _

_ While to that rock I’m clinging. _

_ Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth, _

_ How can I keep from singing?” _

Oh.  This was one of her religion’s songs, as she had promised.  Cullen sat still and tried to pay attention to the words, beyond just the sweetness of her voice.  It seemed a hopeful song, something about finding strength in ‘Christ’.  He presumed that was their name for the Maker.

_ “Through all the tumult and the strife, _

_ I hear that music ringing! _

_ It finds an echo in my heart, _

_ How can I keep from singing? _

 

_ What though my joys and comforts die? _

_ I know my Savior liveth. _

_ What though the darkness gather round? _

_ Songs in the night He giveth. _

 

_ No storm can shake my inmost calm _

_ While to that rock I’m clinging. _

_ Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth, _

_ How can I keep from singing? _

_ The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart, _

_ A fountain ever springing! _

_ All things are mine since I am His! _

_ How can I keep from singing?” _

Cullen liked the song, liked the words.  She had mentioned before that their religions had seemed very similar, and he could see it in the lyrics.  Change a few words, and it could be a Chantry hymn.  It was beautiful, and Cullen felt his heart swell knowing she’d picked it for him, wanted the message to reach  _ him _ .  He felt as moved as the first time he’d heard the Chant.  She understood.  She saw what Cullen drew from religion, and gave him the echoes of it in one of hers.

She fell silent after the last verse, breathing slow and deep as he continued to cradle her in his arms, finding his fingers trailing up and down her back unconsciously.  He didn’t stop once he realized what he was doing, happy to maintain the contact; it seemed Piper hardly minded, either, as she was melting in his embrace.  After a long moment, Cullen realized his legs were falling asleep, pinched between the chair’s arms with her legs.  He shifted a little, feeling the limp weight of her.

“Did you fall asleep?” he asked softly, into the softness of her hair.

“Mm,” she hummed, pulling back a little so that he could see her heavy-lidded eyes.  Her hands slid up his shoulders and around to massage the back of his head gently.  “I must have, because this is a dream.”

He smiled at the implication, and at the tenderness in her touch.  “Is it a good dream?”

She giggled, perhaps more than the question really warranted.  She saw his bemused expression and, face pink, tried to explain: “Sorry, just, that reminded me of this one scene… in one of the more famous stories of my home, there’s this really wonderful romance, and they had an exchange like that.  ‘This is a dream.’ ‘Then it is a good dream.’  I used to swoon over the story when I was a teen.  Still kinda do, actually.”

He wanted to kiss her.  But if he did, he wouldn’t stop, so instead he pressed their foreheads together.  After a long moment, he remarked softly: “It’s late.”

“It is,” she agreed softly, but neither of them moved.  They shared breaths for a moment, then Piper leaned in and brushed his lips lightly with hers and climbed off his lap.  Her hands ran down his shoulders, his arms, and caught up in his hands.  “Sweet dreams, Cullen Rutherford.”

Her fingertips lingered on his as she stepped back, maintaining contact until they no longer could.  She bent to scoop up her cane.  Dazedly, Cullen stood to escort her to the door, stopping her with a hand cupping her cheek.  “Sleep well, my lady.”

She smiled at him as she slipped into the dim moonlight and away.  Cullen closed the door after her, leaned an arm on it and pressed his face into the crook of his elbow.  Maker’s breath, sweet dreams indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, everyone! Let's claim 2018 for ourselves, and burn down anyone who wants to ruin it.  
> "How Can I Keep From Singing". Actually, the version I like best is the one by Enya, which is the secular version. The lyrics are a bit different from the ones Piper gives Cullen, but Enya's voice is nice, so... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MM8mOKfxmWw


	53. Memories*

**Prompt: Memories***

**Word count: 1,475**

* * *

 

Nightmares haunted Lyra’s sleep.  In them, Piper was never found, or only her body was recovered.  In them, Halamshiral failed and Orlais was broken, Adamant was a blood-bath, the future she saw in Redcliffe came true.  She watched as everyone around her died, painfully, horribly.  The blank, staring eyes of Erimond bored into her.  Not accusingly, no, because he could not manage that emotion.

In her dreams, she sold her soul to demons.  Despair, rage.  She knew it wasn’t true, because she wasn’t a mage and the only time demons whispered to her was when they were physically present—at Rifts or when she’d gone into the Fade.  But she dreamed it all the same.  She dreamed she watched, as her body went on to make decisions, to lead the Inquisition… make cruel decisions, leading the Inquisition into darkness and ruin.

She slept fitfully, waking often to find herself sweating, heart racing.  She began dreading sleep, and it took her a long time to even fall asleep at night, tossing and turning with the worry that she would soon be jolting awake from fear.

It was, in a way, absurd.  She hadn’t had such bad nightmares leading up to or during Halamshiral or Adamant.  She’d lost sleep for worry while Piper was missing, but she didn’t have nightmares of her sister’s death.  It was only now, when Piper was safe and the battles were over, that she was having these dreams.

Something something psychology something mumble processing.

But truly, there was probably some explanation, something like she had been too preoccupied with actively dealing with the problems and now that she had time to relax and process them, of course she was having this reaction.

Still didn’t mean she was enjoying it.  For all that those specific events were in the past, she still had many decisions to make in the future.  The Inquisition and all the people of Thedas were depending on her, and she worried about the choices she was making.  The changes she was trying to make; she knew in the game that everything turned out okay, but if she changed the way events played out, could she maybe change something that would cause them to fail?  The road to hell was paved with good intentions.  What if by sparing all the Grey Wardens at Adamant, she was making Corypheus stronger?  What if it made it easier for him to body-jump?  What if his influence on them was stronger than she thought?

There was also the fact that making Erimond Tranquil  _ had _ , as she’d feared, damaged her relationship with the mages of Thedas.  A number of them had left the Inquisition, saying they couldn’t stay in an organization that would use the Brand.  She couldn’t blame them.  She told the Council that those mages should be provisioned and offered aid to go anywhere they wanted to go.

“Our people should feel safe with us; if my actions have made them feel otherwise, I am sorry for it.  They don’t have to stay where they don’t feel safe; I will not further break their trust by forcing them to remain.”

It wasn’t very many, not even a quarter of their mages, but they didn’t have many to begin with, and the holes left in the Inquisition ranks were felt.

And Dorian… He was upset, though he was at least making an effort to understand her reasons.  It had taken a while for him to speak to her afterward, time he’d asked for, so he could think.  It had hurt, but Lyra hadn’t pushed him.  He had a right to be upset.  When he’d finally returned to her side, she’d nearly cried.

Vivienne approved, and made sure everyone was aware of the fact.  It didn’t make Lyra feel any better, honestly.  Vivienne had a rather ruthless outlook on life, and how one could achieve one’s goals.  She was a player of the Game, which necessitated a certain disregard for the lives of anyone else.  She would sacrifice just about anyone if it would benefit her or her agenda.  Lyra didn’t like to think she had anything in common with that viewpoint, but in truth… She did have her own agenda, after a fashion.  She believed it was an agenda for the greater good, but it was still an agenda.  And she had sacrificed Erimond for it.

Doubt and second-guessing and self-loathing.  Why in the hell had she thought she could do this?  Why was she  _ here _ ?  Why was  _ she  _ the Herald, and not one of the canon characters?  What was the point?

Lyra slumped at the railing of the balcony outside the bedroom she shared with Piper.

_ I need to stay strong.  There’s no one else who can do this; I have the Mark, I have to use it. _

She slipped slowly to the floor, wedging herself in a corner of the balcony, back against the railing.  She was a woman from a different world, a stranger.  How was it fair that she was the one making all these important world-shaping decisions when all she was basing them on was whatever information the makers of the Dragon Age franchise chose to include in their products?  And her own fading memories of that information, to boot.  She should have written everything she remembered down the moment it had become clear where and when she was, but she’d been afraid of discovery.  How were you supposed to explain video games and theoretical physics to someone who still thought  _ humors  _ were responsible for illness?

Tucking her head into the crook of her elbow, Lyra tried to calm herself.  Tears pricked at her eyes as she hummed softly.

_ “I hear the mountain birds, _

_ The sound of rivers singing, _

_ A song I’ve often heard, _

_ It flows through me now, _

_ So clear and so loud. _

_ I stand where I am, _

_ And forever I’m dreaming of home. _

_ I feel so alone. _

_ I’m dreaming of home. _

 

_ It’s carried in the air, _

_ The breeze of early morning, _

_ I see the land so fair. _

_ My heart opens wide; _

_ There’s sadness inside. _

_ I stand where I am, _

_ And forever I’m dreaming of home. _

_ I feel so alone, _

_ I’m dreaming of home.” _

The tears stuck in her throat gave her voice a throaty quality, but didn’t distort the melody—she wasn’t as talented as Piper, but she could certainly hold a tune.   The song had been written for a movie about WWI, a really sad anti-war film about the Christmas Truce, and it’s sweet and pure melody never failed to move Lyra to tears.  It was possible that her tearful voice carried well enough that soldiers on the ramparts below could hear snatches of song, but she didn’t care.  She needed the catharsis, and she didn’t care if her soldiers saw her being human.

_ “There is no foreign sky, _

_ I see no foreign light, _

_ But far away I am, _

_ From some peaceful land. _

_ I’m longing to stand, _

_ A hand in my hand. _

_ Forever I’m dreaming of home, _

_ I feel so alone, _

_ I’m dreaming of home…” _

She looked up, vision wavering with tears, and saw Piper standing in the doorway.  Her big sister picked her way slowly to Lyra, her limp as small as it would ever get.  At the obvious evidence of her sister’s past injury, Lyra’s tears fell faster.  Piper was only here because of her, had only been hurt because of her.  She knew Piper didn’t blame her, but… she still felt guilty.

Piper knelt and cradled her sister’s face in her hands, thumbs smearing her tears across her cheeks.  “Duckie… what’s wrong?”

“ _ I’m  _ wrong,” Lyra croaked out.

Piper pulled her into an embrace.  “What?  Why would you say that?”

“What kind of arrogance is it that I think I know what’s best here?  All I’ve done is read a few books and played the games.  And somehow that makes me a good leader?  What if I ruin everything?  I… I got you hurt.  I got Maryden killed.  I  _ Tranquilized  _ Erimond, and drove away some of our mages.”

“You’ve also saved lives,” Piper said, firmly.  “Hundreds, already.  Do you regret that?”

“No of course not, but—”

“No ‘but’s.  All you—all  _ anyone _ —can do is the best they can.  You have to do what you think is right.  Do you think saving those people was wrong?”

“No,” Lyra whispered.

“Then you shouldn’t second-guess yourself.  You can’t play what-ifs if the currency is lives.”

Lyra took a long, shaky breath, squeezing her eyes shut.  “You’re right.  Of course, you’re right.”

“Duckie.  Lyra.”  Lyra opened her eyes and looked Piper in her very solemn face.  “Little sister, I am proud of you for what you’ve done here.  You’ve saved these people.  You’ve given them hope.  You’re trying as best you can to make this world a better place.”

Lyra’s eyes watered anew, and she pressed her face into Piper’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You got your fluff last chapter, now it's time for angst, apparently.
> 
> The song is from Joyeux Noël, a fantastic movie that I think everyone should watch (but be prepared for tears). It's called 'Hymne des fraternisés' or 'I'm Dreaming of Home'. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sjfLpRX55E


	54. My Inspiration

**Prompt: My Inspiration**

**Word count: 1,661**

* * *

 

Piper sat in her stool at the hearth, strumming her lap harp and telling a story to an enraptured audience.  Varric, seated nearby, was gleefully eavesdropping, noting which parts of the story elicited the strongest responses.  It seemed a long tale; she’d been telling in installments each night, drawing a larger crowd each time.  As far as Varric could tell, it was a story of a peaceful fellow finding himself thrust into danger, having discovered that he possessed an ancient artifact that a great evil wanted back.

Chuckling quietly to himself, Varric lifted his mug with one hand, the other poised with quill and ink over the parchment he’d spread across the only-slightly-sticky tabletop.  Those papers nearly went flying as the door was thrown open and Cassandra stalked in.  Varric choked on his mouthful of ale; he recognized the look on her face.  It was a look that heralded someone getting stabbed in the book.

Perhaps demonstrating the first instance of restraint Varric had seen from her outside of warrior’s self-discipline, she waited until Piper had finished her storytelling and for her audience to disperse before confronting her.  Varric was too far away to hear what she hissed to the small minstrel, but Piper’s brow creased in what looked like a combination of worry and confusion.  Varric’s interest piqued.  When Piper led Cassandra upstairs, heading toward the third floor of the Rest, Varric quietly followed.

“How did you know?” Cassandra demanded, voice barely below a shout.  “You knew how Seekers were made.  How?”

“I-I don’t…”

“It was a secret only the Lord Seeker knew.  How?”  Cassandra was very obviously getting riled, and Varric feared briefly that he’d have to step in, if only to prevent the Seeker from doing something she’d regret.

“I-I’m sorry!  I didn’t know it was secret.  Lyra told me.  She explained a lot of things about this place, when I first came here.  I’m not sure how she knew.  Sometimes she just knows things!”

“How?” Cassandra demanded.  “We have not had contact with your people before; no one has crossed the Amaranthine Ocean and returned!”

“I don’t know, okay!” Piper exclaimed.  “Lyra’s always been curious, maybe she read it in a book or something!”

“There are no books with this information!” the Seeker hissed.  Varric quietly edged back from the stairway, and took off running as soon as he was sure it wouldn’t draw either woman’s attention.

He went straight to Dorian’s nook in the library, hoping the Inquisitor hadn’t deviated from her typical daily routine.  Thankfully, she was indeed ensconced in one of the tall-backed chairs in the alcove, happily reading in companionable silence with the Tevinter mage.  She glanced up distractedly as Varric’s hasty footsteps echoed toward her.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, “you need to get to Cole’s corner in the Rest, and save your sister from the Seeker.”

Lyra blinked, the distant, thoughtful look of her ‘reading face’ fading.  “What?”

“The Seeker’s interrogating your sister,” he replied.  “Something about Seeker secrets, and how she could possibly have known about them.”

“Oh shit,” she said, jumping to her feet and nearly bowling over Varric as she sprinted off.  Dorian steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, lifting one finely manicured eyebrow.

“I think I’ve missed something.”

“Maybe,” Varric replied, straightening his shirt and hurrying off after her, “but I’m not missing this!”

The Daughters had been his inspiration for months, meaning he’d been watching them for months, which then meant that he had already noticed their strange propensity to just  _ know  _ things about Thedas, even though they were both strangers to the land and had, by their own admission, never been here before.  Cassandra wasn’t wrong when she’d said no one had crossed the Amarantine Ocean and come back before; nobody had even been aware of another culture on the other side of the ship-eating depths.  Which begged the question: How  _ did  _ Lyra, and Piper to a lesser extent, know so much about them?

Varric, and Dorian, who trailed behind him, entered the third floor of the Herald’s Rest to find Lyra, hands akimbo, nose-to-nose with Cassandra.  Piper had a firm grip on her sister’s upper arm, and was in the process of trying to de-escalate the situation.

“Everyone calm down!  Let’s all stop just throwing accusations around and talk like goddamn adults,” she said.  At some point in the time between Varric’s leaving and returning, she had progressed from stuttering nerves to aggravated annoyance.  She was frowning deeply.

“Where do you get off, treating my sister like some kind of evil spy while she’s sacrificed so much while helping the Inquisition?” Lyra snapped at Cassandra, ignoring Piper’s plea.

“She—and you!—know secrets you shouldn’t.  I want to know how!” Cassandra fired back, color high.

“Because I can fucking read, okay?” Lyra snapped.  Nobody seemed to have noticed his or Dorian’s entrance.

“Read what?  How can there be books about the Seekers, when not even I knew about these secrets?”

“Jesus, I don’t know; there were just books about this, about Thedas, at home!  I just read them, okay?”

“Who wrote these books, how did they find out this information!” Cassandra shouted.  Varric glanced down into the tavern from the railing, but it was peak time for the Rest and it was full of off-duty soldiers and servants, their conversations loud and boisterous.  It didn’t seem as if anyone could hear the argument on the third floor.

“How the hell should I know?  I only read the books, I didn’t converse with the authors!” Lyra shouted back.  “I don’t know how the fuck they figure out your secrets, or how they knew so much about Thedas.  For all I know, they just visited here!”

“Stop it, both of you!” Piper shouted, obviously fed-up with the argument.  She swung her cane at a nearby beam, the swatting crack cutting off Cassandra’s retort.  “Cassandra, haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘don’t kill the messenger’?  We haven’t been spying on you, all Lyra did was read some books.  We don’t know how the authors got their information, and we can’t exactly ask, so it’s pointless to interrogate us.  And Lyra, Cassandra’s clearly upset and yelling back at her is hardly helping.  Both of you need to calm down!”

Cassandra scoffed, turning away, but caught sight of Varric and Dorian and froze, posture stiffening.

“Pardon the interruption,” Dorian said smoothly, “but are you implying that people of your homeland have voyaged across the Amaranthine Ocean?”

Lyra’s face was thunderous, the dark scowl not fading a bit as she stared the mage down.  “I guess?  Nobody’s ever really talked about it.  The books I read aren’t common knowledge or anything; they’re not even considered  _ truthful _ .  People think they’re made-up, fiction, just  _ stories _ !”

“We weren’t even aware this place was real until we fell through the Fade into it,” Piper put in.

“We read them before we knew they were secrets.”  Cole suddenly spoke up, appearing crouched on one of the crates stored in what functioned as the Rest’s attic.  They all jumped; he hadn’t been there earlier.  “Didn’t mean to.”

Lyra was taking slow, calming breaths, which apparently worked because when she spoke, it was level and earnest.  “Cassandra.  I understand that it’s upsetting, that we know things we have no right to.  But I’d ask you to consider the benefit.  Piper and I are strangers here, but circumstances have placed us in positions of power.  How much more difficult would everything be if we didn’t know at least a little about Thedas?  How could we have negotiated with both the mages and the templars?  How could I be an effective leader without knowing the people, the cultures, here?  I can’t change what I’ve read, and I can’t explain how those books were written.  But I can use the information I gained from them to help.  Please don’t resent me for that.”

The Seeker was still clearly struggling with her anger, but she gave a terse nod and forced out: “I need some time.”

“That’s fair,” Lyra said quietly.  Cassandra nodded again, then strode away stiffly.  Varric would have laid money on her heading to the training grounds to beat out her emotions on the pells.

Lyra groaned, rubbing her face on her palms.  “Ugh.  I hate arguing with friends.”

“Sorry,” Piper said guiltily.  “I mentioned something to her a while ago, about how Seekers are made.  I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“It’s okay,” Lyra said.  “You couldn’t have known.  And something like this was bound to happen eventually.”

“So how much do you know about Thedas, exactly?” Varric asked.  She shrugged wearily.

“I dunno.  Some vague history.  A little about the culture of the different countries.  Apparently some secrets about some of the organizations.”

Varric hummed thoughtfully.  “Who were the authors of these books you read?”

Lyra’s nose wrinkled.  “Uh… I remember one, David Gaider.  And I think there were some others?  Something with a W, and I don’t remember his first name… Wake?  No, Weekes?  And an L name...”

They weren’t names he knew, but he’d expected the possibility was a slim one.  He shrugged.  Lyra shrugged back in response.

“Frankly, none of this matters,” she said.  “We’ll never know how they came by the information they put in those books without asking them, and well, that’s pretty impossible.”

“You don’t think you’re ever going home?” Dorian asked.  Both Lyra and Piper’s eyes dropped, and there was a moment of awkward silence.

“No,” Lyra finally said.  “No, we don’t really even understand how we got here in the first place.  Going home’s probably not in the cards.”

“A world away,” Cole murmured.  “Lost, lost, lost.”

“Ah,” Dorian said, uncomfortably, “well.”

“At least we have friends here,” Piper said firmly.  She reached out and took her sister’s hand.  “We can make a life here.”

“Right.”  Lyra took a breath.  “Yeah.”

“Shit, kid,” Varric sighed.  “All right, come on.  Pretty sure we all need a drink now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to say, there won't be Thursday updates for January; I have too much Real Life stuff to do...


	55. Forever and a Day

**Prompt: Forever and a Day**

**Word count: 1,004**

* * *

Dorian had to admit that the Inquisition was never boring.  Sometimes he wished for a little less excitement, perhaps, but by and large he relished the opportunities that came to them.  And he most certainly valued the friendships that had grown.

He had never expected, when he first traveled south, that he would ever find acceptance, let alone affection, among the magic-fearing (and Tevinter-mage-fearing, in particular) southerners.  But he had.  And he did not just mean the Daughters, those women would wielded kindness as fiercely as one might a weapon.  Dorian found himself with an unexpected wealth of friends.  Cullen, a former templar, with whom he played chess.  Solas, the proud elven mage with whom he debated magical theory.  The Iron Bull, a Qunari, a  _ ben-hassrath  _ no less, with whom he traded an oddly fond, biting banter.  No, he never would have imagined the friends he would have here.

That was part of why it was so hard to stay truly angry at any of them.  At Lyra in particular, despite her deplorable use of that southern obscenity: Tranquility.  She was too kind, too devoted to sacrificing everything of herself if it helped people, if it saved people.  It took him some time, but Dorian realized that her choice had been to the benefit of others—the Wardens, largely, but also the Inquisition, in avoiding a siege and outright battle with those august warriors—and at a cost to herself.  When he realized just how much making that choice had… had  _ wounded  _ her, he felt his disgust and anger fade (but not disappear, he had to admit).  It hadn’t been obvious, not at first.  She’d had to sell the decision, to play at being the decisive Inquisitor, not a frightened girl second-guessing herself.  But he was her friend, and so he eventually had seen her in her unguarded moments.  When she hadn’t had to wear her mask of leadership.  And he came to wonder if, perhaps, she didn’t hate Tranquility as much as he did… and if she didn’t hate herself, now, for having used it.

When he’d gone to her, to apologize for the two weeks of silence he’d held between them, she’d wept.  She’d hidden it masterfully, jaw tensing against the sob that build in her throat, and blinking back the tears, but he’d seen the sheen of them in her eyes, the tremble of her chin before it had firmed.  It was obvious that he meant a lot to her, that she held their friendship dear.

It will be hard, when all this is over, to leave it behind and return to Tevinter.  But he’d been thinking about it as they drew ever closer to the final confrontation with Corypheus, and the more he did, the more he realized it was what he needed to do.  He knew his country had its flaws, but he also knew that it could be great.  There were good people there, and the chance for a more just nation.  But it couldn’t get there without help.  And Dorian was in a position to be that help.  His position as Altus, his good breeding, and his involvement with the Inquisition would give him political clout.  A certain sort of weight to throw around.

What was it that Lyra kept saying?  With great power comes great responsibility?  Dorian had power.  He needed to live up to his responsibilities.

He would miss them, though.  He wasn’t sure what they would all do, after the war was won.  Would the Inquisition continue on?  Whatever else happened, he knew that they couldn’t come to Tevinter with him.  Not with his homeland the way it was.

The realization was painful, because it meant there would be a long separation at the end of all this.  Dorian would return home alone, leaving behind all the friendships he had made.  It wasn’t that he didn’t have friends in Tevinter, but they were not the sort of friends that Felix had been, that Lyra and Piper were.  The sort of friends that you could depend upon, trust with your life.  No, Dorian’s friends in Tevinter were more allies of like-mind.  People who thought Tevinter could be better.  But they were also people of ambition and politics.  As long as Dorian was valuable to them as an ally, they would have his back, but if circumstances ever made it more beneficial to them to sacrifice him on the chessboard of their agendas…

Well.  It’s not like it would be forever, like he would never see them again.  He would always be able to return, always be welcome in Lyra and Piper’s lives.  They had said as much, after the mess that had been confronting his father in Redcliffe, when he’d been… in a bad place.  Seeing his father had re-opened wounds, although he would grant that they had been festering and needed to be drained.  He felt better now, for having listened to Halward, but immediately after?  He had not been well.  Mentally.  Emotionally.  But the sisters had been there for him.  Had not let him feel alone.  They were nothing but kind to him.  Good in the way that Felix had been.

They were going to change the world.  And Dorian was going to help them.  Even if it meant going back to the conniving, back-stabbing,  _ lonely _ realm of Tevinter politics.  Even if it meant leaving his friends behind, for a time anyway.  He would treat it as an exile.  A year and a day (though he anticipated it would feel like  _ forever  _ and a day).

But, first things first.  As much as he had faith the Inquisition would succeed in its mission, the hard work of stopping Corypheus still needed to be done.  And Dorian himself had just received a crate full of manuscripts and grimoires from the library in Minrathous, including a copy of the Liberalum.  Uncovering the true name of the creature calling itself ‘Corypheus’ would put one more weapon in their arsenal.  Dorian would find it.  He would not let them down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "With great power comes great responsibility" is one of the greatest quotes and one I wish more people followed. Very similar phrases have appeared throughout history, the earliest being 1793 in France, but of course Lyra quoted the Spiderman version. Because she is a nerd.


	56. Bitter Silence*

**Prompt: Bitter Silence***

**Word count: 1,506**

* * *

 

Lyra left with the Avvar, to deal with their Rift problem, and Cullen left for the Shrine of Dumat, to deal with Corypheus’ general, Samson.  Between the two of them, they also emptied Skyhold of Dorian, Bull, Cole, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas.  And a host of soldiers, each.

Skyhold was almost quiet with so many gone.  And Piper, as a result, found herself restless.  Most of the people she would normally talk to were gone, and the tavern was a lot quieter with so many soldiers out in the field.  She still played in the Rest, as usual, but the songs were a little more subdued, with fewer voices joining in refrains.  Her free time, which she would usually spend with Dorian, Varric, or even Josephine or Leliana when they had the time… she spent a lot of it noodling with her lap harp or guitar.  Sometimes in her room, sometimes on the ramparts, where the acoustics were awesome.

There were a lot of people still in Skyhold that she _could_ talk to.  Sera was still around, but Piper had found that she had a threshold for dealing with the high-energy anarchist elf.  Blackwall was also around, but he was a man of few words, and always seemed vaguely uncomfortable in her presence.  Vivienne was still in residence, too, but… Piper tended to avoid her.  Vivienne was very obviously a player of the Game, and conversations with her felt a little like trying to walk across a minefield.  Piper still wasn’t sure if the elegant mage saw her as anything more than a chess-piece.  She’d also made the mistake once of asking Vivienne’s opinion on the mage rebellion.  After having heard about what went on at the Circles, all the violations of basic human rights, and the state (and religion, though they were more or less the same thing here) sanctioned murder, it had astonished her to find a mage so vehemently pro-circle as Vivienne.  She didn’t see anything wrong with what the Circles had been, except perhaps in the mages’ response.  It all smacked of victim-blaming to Piper, which made her exceedingly uncomfortable.  So she avoided Vivienne; it was actually very easy.  Piper spent most of her time with the soldierly rabble, and Vivienne held herself quite aloof from the rest of Skyhold’s population.  Their paths didn’t exactly cross.

Even if half of her solitude was self-imposed, it was still kind of lonely, though.

Maybe that was why she decided to play in the garden, a more trafficked area than her usual haunts, an area where their noble guests congregated.

She might have been an introvert, but even introverts needed interpersonal interactions sometimes, lest the silence turn bitter.

She took her guitar with her, and fiddled with it for a while until an unconscious run of notes flicked at her memory, and she segued smoothly into a song.

_“Somewhere over the rainbow,_

_Way up high._

_And the dreams that you dreamed of_

_Once in a lullaby._

_Oh, somewhere over the rainbow,_

_Blue birds fly._

_And the dreams that you dream of_

_Dreams really do come true.”_

She heard a bush nearby rustle, but ignored it, continuing on.  It didn’t sounds quite as sweet on guitar as it did on ukelele, but she softened the tone of her voice and stroked the notes out of the guitar as sweetly as she could.  It was decent.

_“Someday I’ll wish upon a star_

_Wake up where the clouds are far behind me_

_Where trouble melts like lemon drops_

_High above the chimney tops._

_That’s where you’ll find me._

_Oh, somewhere over the rainbow,_

_Blue birds fly._

_And the dream that you dare to_

_Why oh why can’t I…_

 

_“Well I see trees of green_

_And red roses too._

_I watch them bloom for me and you,_

_And I think to myself:_

_What a wonderful world._

_Well I see skies of blue,_

_And I see clouds of white,_

_And the brightness of day._

_I like the dark,_

_And I think to myself:_

_What a wonderful world._

 

_“The colors of the rainbow,_

_So pretty in the sky_

_Are also on the faces of people passing by._

_See friends shakin’ hands saying_

_‘How do you do?’_

_They’re really saying ‘I, I love you.’”_

 

_“I hear babies cry_

_And I watch them grow._

_They’ll know much more than we’ll ever know._

_And I think to myself:_

_What a wonderful world._

_Oh, someday I’ll wish upon a star,_

_Wake up where the clouds are far behind me_

_Where trouble melts like lemon drops,_

_High above the chimney tops._

_That’s where you’ll find me.”_

 

_“Oh, somewhere over the rainbow,_

_Way up high._

_And the dreams that you dare to_

_Why oh why can’t I, I…”_

She had to take a moment after the song to collect herself and make sure she wasn’t crying.  Feelings had ambushed her without warning around the second ‘wonderful world’, and she was politically savvy enough to know that bursting into tears in the middle of the garden was probably not the best idea.  So she bit down on her tongue hard enough to send a jolt of pain through her, and pretended to adjust the tuning of her A string.  As she did, she became aware of a little pale face peering out at her from the bushes.

“Hello,” she said, blinking.  The little solemn face blinked back.

“Hello,” the boy replied.  They stared at each other a moment, and then the kid said: “I liked your song.”

“Thank you.”  Piper considered him.  “Would you like to learn how to play it?”

Interest lit the boy’s eyes, but he hesitated, looking at the guitar doubtfully.  “Your lute is bigger than the ones I’ve seen.”

“Oh, this isn’t a lute.  It’s a guitar.  From, er, Antiva.”

“Oh.” The boy thought again, and apparently decided guitars merited a closer look, because he emerged from the leaves to stand before Piper.  He looked at her critically.  “You’re the Inquisitor’s sister.  I haven’t seen you before, because you were kidnapped before we came to Skyhold, but I heard everyone cheer when you came back.”

“Er,” Piper said, slightly nonplussed at this matter-of-fact accounting.  “Yeah, that’s me.  You can call me Piper.”

“I’m Kieran,” he declared.  “My mother’s helping your sister beat the bad guys.”

“Cool.  Who’s your mother?”

“Lady Morrigan,” he shrugged, losing interest in that topic of conversation.  “Can you really teach me to play?”

Piper tried to keep up.  Morrigan… that was a name she recognized, but damned if she didn’t really remember what Lyra’s said about the woman.  Whatever.  If this was her kid, Piper would probably meet her eventually.  “Sure.  Here, sit down next to me.”

He did so, and Piper handed over the guitar, gently showing him how to hold it.  It was a little awkward for his small stature, but he managed.  “Okay, so these strings are each tuned to a specific note…”

* * *

Piper ended up meeting Morrigan sooner than she might have anticipated.  She had only been teaching Kieran for maybe ten-fifteen minutes when a slender unusually-garbed woman came into the garden and called for him.

“I’m here, Mother!” He called for her but didn’t move, carefully cradling the guitar in his lap.  Piper took one look at her and immediately recognized her from Lyra’s promotional Dragon Age poster, and remembered what Lyra’d told her about the Witch of the Wilds.

The woman in question approached, and lifted an eyebrow.  “I hope you were not bothering the Daughter of Andraste, Kieran.”

The boy fidgeted.  “I wasn’t!”

“He wasn’t, really,” Piper assured his mother a little nervously.  “To tell the truth, I’d been a little lonely, and your son was sweet enough to keep me company for a little while.”

Jeez, the mage’s yellow stare was pretty damn intimidating…

“Is that so,” she drawled.  “And what is it the two of you are doing?”

“I’m learning guitar!”

“Um,” Piper said, abruptly uncertain if she’d overstepped, “he enjoyed the song I was playing, so…”

“Nimble fingers will aid him in his alchemy lessons,” Morrigan interrupted, a little dismissively, even as she rationalized learning the instrument.  Morrigan observed them a moment, Piper trying not to squirm under the sharp stare.  “Were you minding your teacher well, Kieran?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Indeed.”  She stared at Piper a little longer.  “I will allow these lessons to continue, provided you do not shirk your other responsibilities, Kieran.”

“Yes, Mother!”

The witch added, perhaps a little uncomfortably: “And thank you, Lady Piper, for teaching him.”

“Uh.”  Piper blinked, feeling so incredibly out of her depth.  “Of course.  It’s my pleasure.”

Morrigan said nothing in reply to that, only swept away to… do whatever Witches of the Wild do in their free time.  Piper watched her go mutely.

“I think she likes you,” Kieran said with apparent sincerity.  Piper’s mouth opened, closed.  It didn’t feel like it, but far be it from her to argue with the woman’s son.

“Oh… good?” she finally said weakly in reply.  “Uh, ready to learn a C chord?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere Over the Rainbow by Israel Kamakawiwo'Ole.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fahr069-fzE


	57. Illogical*

**Prompt: Illogical***

**Word count: 1,100**

* * *

He didn’t like to spend much time in the tavern, uneasy with the idea of becoming  _ known  _ to these men and women, fearing that getting too close would tear the thin veil of his lie like paper.  It wasn’t all that illogical; after Halamshiral, they had starting getting a lot more recruits from Orlais, and any one of them could be just observant enough to realize that the Inquisition’s Warden bore an odd, uncanny resemblance to that fugitive Thom Rainier.  Then, too, the prospect of drinking a little too much and giving away his secret was also a deterrent.

Tonight was different.

Tonight, it didn’t matter anymore.

He sat at the bar, a second mug of ale clasped in one hand.  The tips of his fingers were pleasantly numb, a comfortable fuzziness in the rest of his body.  He took in the sight of the soldiers and servants laughing and talking together, united in their purpose, united under the banner of the Inquisition.  The Lady Piper played something on her fiddle that got toes tapping.

He watched quietly from his place at the fringes, the way friends jostled and nudged shoulders, how lovers curled close to each other.  The Lady laughed and joked with some of the closer tables as she rested between songs.  Faces shining, limbs loose with drink… 

He felt like an interloper, a crow snuck into a flock of doves.  He didn’t belong here; he never had.  Everything he was, was a lie.  Perhaps it was time to stop lying.  He took a large mouthful of ale, his mind wandering down dark paths, and he let it.  There were many things he had done in his past that were shameful, dishonorable.  He looked back on them with a soul that burned with self-contempt and regret, but was what he was doing really atonement?  Or was he just a coward, trying to justify his continued dodging of consequence?

“Hello, Blackwall.”

He flinched in surprise, turning to find Lady Piper beside him, giving him a polite smile.  “My Lady.”

“Cider, please, Cabot,” she said, and the dwarven barkeep grunted acknowledgment.  She turned back to Thom, commenting: “It’s rare to see you here.”

“Don’t much care for the crowds,” he replied after a slight hesitation.  It was truth, but also something of an evasion.

“With everyone with the Commander or my sister, it has been emptier,” she said, nodding, making the assumption that was the reason he’d ventured out now.  He let her, and signaled Cabot for another ale.

“Skyhold has been quieter,” he acknowledged.  “The stables are nearly empty.”

“Mm,” she hummed in agreement as she lifted her cider, freshly delivered by Cabot, to her mouth.  Thom’s fingers tightened around his refilled mug as he stared into the murky contents.  “Do you wish they’d taken you along?”

He shrugged at the question.  “I am glad to help in any way I can, but I can’t say I regret missing out on the battles.”

“I bet.  Red Templars on one hand, Rift demons on the other,” she said with a wry twist of her mouth.

“They are not comfortable opponents,” he agreed, taking a drink.  A silence fell between them, and he found himself wanting to confide in her.  She was a warm presence, a queen easy in her domain, and her gentle, friendly mien seemed to draw his thoughts out.  Perhaps it was the ale, loosening his tongue.

“When I was a boy,” he said, without consciously deciding to share this story, reveal this shame, “there were these urchins who roamed the streets near my father’s house.  One day, they found a dog.  A wretched little thing.  It came to them for food.”

He couldn’t look at her as he told the story, staring down into his mug.  “They caught it, tied a rope around its neck, and strung it up.”

He heard her breath catch, felt her stir at his elbow.  He glanced toward her.  “Do you know what I did?”

Her brows were drawn together, eyes searching his face.  He forced himself to meet her gaze.   _ Look at me.  See what I really am _ .  There was a worried frown on her face as she slowly replied: “Something you regret.”

The quiet softness of her voice made him look away again.  He drew his mug closer, hunching over it.  “I did nothing.  Not a damn thing.  It was crying.  I saw its legs kicking, its neck twisting and straining… And I turned around, went inside, and shut the door.  I could have told my father, or someone.  I didn’t.  I just pretended it wasn’t happening.”

“How old were you?”

“Old enough to have known right from wrong,” he replied sharply.  She nodded, watching him thoughtfully.

“Last call,” Cabot grunted as he passed by them, giving her a significant look.  She nodded, draining the last of her cider and pushing the cup toward the back of the bar.  She stood, body turned to face Thom fully.  Her proximity and stance prompted him to look her in the face.

Eyes solemn she asked: “And what would you do  _ now _ , if you found yourself in a similar situation?”

_ I would stop it _ .  The words came immediately, startling him.  She nodded, seeing the answer in his face, and left before he found his voice.  He watched, unseeing, as she returned to her dias at the hearth.  A lull in the conversations around her created space for her voice to ring out as she started a song.  Thom recognized it; she sang it at last call every day she performed in the Rest, and by now many of the other patrons knew it and joined it.  He could sometimes hear their combined voices all the way in the stables, on a still night.  It was the first time, however, that he could make out all the words.

_ “Of all the money that e’er I spent, _

_ I spent it in good company. _

_ And all the harm that e’er I’ve done, _

_ Alas, it was to none but me. _

_ And all I’ve done for want of wit, _

_ To mem’ry now I can’t recall. _

_ So fill to me the parting glass, _

_ Good night and joy be with you all. _

 

_ “Oh all the comrades that e’er I’ve had _

_ Are sorry for my going away. _

_ And all the sweethearts that e’er I’ve had _

_ Would wish me one more day to stay. _

_ But since it falls unto my lot, _

_ That I should rise and you should not, _

_ I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call: _

_ Good night and joy be with you all. _

_ Good night and joy be with you all.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a chapter, because honestly I'm just tired of work and I feel like updating.
> 
> Song is "The Parting Glass". There are a lot of really great recordings out there; for this, listen to the Wailin' Jennys (because women singing it is most atmospheric, and also Jennys, duh). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_F4Cz8q_S2A


	58. Shadows*

**Prompt: Shadows***

**Word count: 1,819**

* * *

Cullen almost regretted insisting that he lead the assault on Samson’s base at the Shrine of Dumat.  He’d known the red lyrium would be there—it seemed to grow from the very footsteps of the Red Templars—and that it would sing to him.  He had prepared for it, and it had not bothered him in the heat of the battle.  He’d been able to ignore it, more or less, and complete his objectives.

But it would not fade.  Days on hoof, the Shrine behind them, and he could still hear that cursed susurration.  The whispering.  Without his mission to distract him, it was almost overwhelming.  He found himself, occasionally, humming along with it.  When he realized he was, rage and despair flashed through him.  His teeth gritted and a cold sweat started.  His hands clenched as they wanted to shake.

He started singing the Chant in his thoughts, tried to slip into the calm, buoyant weightlessness of mediation as his horse carried him toward Skyhold.  It helped, but it didn’t stop the thrum and fizz of the song scratching at his mind.  It was worse when it was night, and quiet.  Sleep was elusive, and when it did come, it was full of disquieting dreams and nightmares.

By the time they reached Skyhold, Cullen ached from head to toe, from exhaustion and stress.  The effort he had to put forth to appear composed in front of his soldiers was monumental, and by the time he could make his way to his quarters, he was nearly stumbling, vision blurred.  The lyrium song seemed to pulse in him like a second heartbeat, pushing and pulling at his sanity.  His thoughts drifted to his philter kit, hidden away in one of the drawers of his desk, and stuck there.

_ Take it. _  The old familiar whisper hissed in his mind.   _ The sweet blue song, it’s purer than the red.  Take it, and hear it again. _

Once he thought about it, it was all he could think about.  The red lyrium’s buzzing song was poison; perhaps he could burn it out with normal lyrium.

His feet carried him to his tower as his mind and his addiction battled each other.  He didn’t  _ want  _ to relapse, but perhaps he  _ needed  _ to… If the red lyrium could scratch its way into his mind… But no, how was this any different from the days he’d spent with the echo of the normal lyrium song in his ears, when his withdrawals waxed strong.  He wouldn’t lose every step forward he’d fought to take, not now.

_ But the red lyrium…  _ Cullen shuddered, fumbling at the door to his office with his free hand, the candle in his other dancing with the tremor starting in his grip.   _ It’s song is in you… _

He could see himself, in his mind’s eye, going into his office, walking toward his desk, pulling out the drawer…

Cullen froze just inside his door, abruptly realizing that it wasn’t dark and empty inside as he’d expected.  Another candle, on the other side of the room and nearly burned down, cast warm light on Piper’s sleeping face as she pillowed her head on crossed arms.  Three darkly shadowed shapes arrayed around her feet moved, heads lifting toward him—the mabari were silent out of consideration for their sleeping mistress, but their eyes gleamed with pricks of reflected candlelight as they inspected him.  Recognizing him, they stood and padded over for greeting pets.  He obliged, but found his gaze captured by Piper’s peaceful expression, the sweep of her eyelashes against her cheek, the curve of her lips.

All thoughts of lyrium were snuffed out by the surprise and pleasure at seeing her, here, asleep at his desk as if she’d been waiting for him.  He crossed the room, setting down his candle beside hers, ignoring the tremor that still plagued his hands.  Rey, Finn, and Poe followed, settling down on their haunches nearby.  Cullen hesitated, looking down at his—at Piper, itching to hold her but reluctant to disturb her.  But it was hardly comfortable, sleeping slumped on the surface of his desk (he would know).  His first instinct was to gather her up and carry her to her bed, but he was... too weak for that, short on sleep and his withdrawals flaring up.

Slowly, creakily, he lowered himself to his knees next to her, drinking in the sight of her.  Her mouth was slightly open to breathe deeply, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath.  She wore a loose dress, cinched in at her waist with laces, soft and warm.

Cullen reached out and stroked her cheek, combed his fingers through her hair, and down her neck to settle his palm on her shoulder.  She stirred sluggishly, mouth closing then opening.  “Mmnn?”

Her eyes opened slowly, gaze hazy and indistinct, but focusing quickly.  As soon as she registered his presence, she smiled.  “Cullen.”

Maker, the way she said his name…

He pressed in close, her mouth opening sleepily under his.  She hummed into the kiss, and he felt her stretch out, cat-like, waking a little more.  Her arms looped around his neck and she nuzzled into him, apparently unconcerned for the cold plane of his armor against her.  Cullen broke the kiss and tucked his nose into her hair, breathing in the scents that clung to her—woodsmoke, washed dog, a whiff of lavender from her soap, and the slight edge of sweat from a long day.  He imagined he did not smell remotely as good, but couldn’t bring himself to let her go.

She nuzzled his jaw, breathing a little sigh against his skin, and he felt such a wash of affection and relief and awe that it left him weak.  He thought of the line from the song she’d given him,  _ how can I keep from singing _ , and perhaps it was heretical or sacrilegious, but he felt it.  He felt the joy and awe well in him in such a way that it could only be expressed through song.

_ “O Maker, hear my cry: _

_ Guide me through the blackest nights, _

_ Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, _

_ Make me to rest in the warmest of places. _

 

_ “O Creator, see me kneel: _

_ For I walk only where You would bid me, _

_ Stand only in places You have blessed, _

_ Sing only the words You place in my throat.” _

Cullen sang the Chant softly into her hair, eyes closed.  He wasn’t entirely sure who he was singing to; Piper or the Maker.  Perhaps it was both.  Piper’s fingers curled around the nape of his neck, breathing shallowly as if she were afraid of scaring him off.

_ “My Maker, know my heart: _

_ Take from me a life of sorrow, _

_ Lift me from a world of pain, _

_ Judge me worthy of Your endless pride. _

 

_ “My Creator, judge me whole: _

_ Find me well within your grace, _

_ Touch me with fire that I may be cleansed, _

_ Tell me I have sung to Your approval. _

 

_ “O Maker, hear my cry: _

_ Seat me by Your side in death, _

_ Make me one within Your glory, _

_ And let the world once more see Your favor.” _

There was a moment of stillness after he finished, and then Piper drew back slightly, her hands shifting to cup his face.  Her thumbs swept at his cheeks just under his eyes, her expression infinitely soft, and Cullen realized he was weeping.

“Was it very bad?” Her voice was quiet.  Cullen hesitated.  He’d told her about the lyrium, before he’d left, when he’d realized that this—between them, whatever this was—was deep and real and lasting.  But he’d hidden his weakness for so long, it was hard to break from that.

“The red lyrium,” he said finally, hoping that was enough and he wouldn’t have to explain.  Her mouth twisted down in dismay and shadows came into her eyes as she remembered her own close encounter with the stuff.  She brushed her fingers through his hair, biting her lip.  The indent of her teeth in the soft curve captured Cullen’s attention.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked, carefully.  His mouth opened automatically to reply in the negative, but he paused, watching his hands sweep slowly over her shoulders, the touch grounding him and soothing him.

“You’re already doing it,” he replied finally.  Her slender shoulders rose and fell in a sigh, and she shuffled closer on the chair so she could press her forehead to his.  After a moment, she captured his hands and started stripping the vambraces and gloves from him.  He offered no resistance.

Once she was done with those, she shifted to unbuckle and unstrap his spaulders.  Now, Cullen moved, helping her to remove the rest of his armor until he was clad in his gambeson and trousers.  Piper stood in front of him, holding his hands loosely in hers, running her eyes over his face.

“You’re exhausted,” she murmured, and tugged lightly.  “Come on.”

In a sort of daze, mind and body weary, Cullen let her lead him to the ladder up to his loft and obediently climbed it when she placed his hands on the lower rungs.  Absently listening to her whispering to the mabari down stairs, he moved toward his bed, pulling his shirt over his head as he went.  His hands were at his trouser laces when he heard the ladder creak again, and froze.  Sure enough, Piper’s hand, holding a candle, appeared over the lip of the trapdoor.  She set it down and kept climbing, her tousled golden head appearing next.  He blinked at her.  “My lady?”

She climbed awkwardly to her feet with the candle in one hand, Cullen belated moving to offer help up.  She took his hand, though she was already standing, and chewed her lip with a little furrow in her brow.  Cullen awkwardly shifted, wondering if he should put his shirt back on, but he didn’t think she was reacting to his bare chest, exactly.  Her gaze lingered on him, true, but it was also an absent look, her attention turned inward to her thoughts.  “Um,” she said hesitantly.  “Can we… sleep together?  I mean, just sleep!  I… It’s just that we’re both tired, and I missed you, and I don’t really want to leave especially when you’re upset…”

A chance to sleep with her in his arms?  It was tempting, but… “I’m not a restful sleeper,” he told her reluctantly.  “I have nightmares…”

“Then maybe we won’t sleep.  But we could just hold each other for a while?”  Her eyes were large and liquid in the flickering candlelight, staring at him earnestly.  He nodded mutely, entirely unable to deny her, and let her lead him to the bed.

The little sigh she breathed out as she settled against his chest, her body warmly tucked against his, made it impossible for him to regret the choice.  Even when they did both end up falling asleep, curled together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am continually disappointed that the Chant is never actually sung in the games. Look, Cullen singing! *attempts Jedi mindtrick*
> 
> I do have some headcanons about lyrium song. When you're by lyrium in the game, it sounds kinda like humming feedback from a speaker... Or like some of the recordings of space radiation (or, well, recordings of electromagnetic radiation that've been converted to something humans can hear). I've long been in love with the recordings Voyager took of Jupiter and Saturn (my fav planet), so I like to think lyrium sounds like a more melodic combo of those. So delightfully creepy but also mesmerizing.  
> Lyrium singing: https://nomdeguerrewrites.tumblr.com/post/170246660098/corseque-there-are-many-audio-files-of  
> Saturn: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_JAvVjKeWI  
> Jupiter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3fqE01YYWs&t=284s


	59. Troubling Thoughts

**Prompt: Troubling Thoughts**

**Word count: 1,085**

* * *

 

“So.  You and Curly, huh?”

“Oh my god, Varric, don’t.”

“What?”

“Everyone and their mother is teasing me about it.  Or teasing him, which might be worse.  You’re all going to make him spook like a wild horse.”

Varric laughed.  “I think you’re not giving him enough credit.  I’ve known Curly a long time, you know, and I’ve never seen him like this.  The way he is with you.”

He watched the color creep up her neck and face with fascination.  Huh.  She blushed the same as Curly.

“Does that even count?” she asked.  “I know you were both in Kirkwall for a few years, but in that time, how often did you cross paths?  How many times did you actually talk to him?”

Varric inclined his head, conceding the point.  “True, but I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character.  And Curly’s pretty lost on you.”

“Still not going to give you carte blanche to torment him over this,” she informed him dryly.  Varric obliged her with a chuckle, but he wasn’t really finished.  He had a purpose bringing this up with her, and it wasn’t just to watch her face pink up.

“But I am serious,” he said, suiting actions to words as his tone became somber.  “The Commander was never one for casual relationships; he’s serious about you.”

Piper stopped wiping rosin dust off her fiddle and looked at him incredulously.  She blinked at him, mouth opening.  “Wait a second.  Are you giving  _ me  _ the shovel talk?”

“I’m guessing the ‘shovel talk’ has something to do with warning someone in a friendly manner not to emotionally injure a friend on pain of death?” Varric deduced.  “Then, yes.”

She stared at him a moment longer, eyebrows high, before slowing going back to cleaning her instrument.  “I would never purposefully hurt him, you know that Varric.”

“I do, but I also know there are ways you might unintentionally hurt him.”  He paused, watching her frown thoughtfully down at the fiddle.  “When this is over, are you going to go home?”

The question clearly startled her, her head popping up, eye wide as she met his level gaze.  “No.  I mean…”

Her brow furrowed and she looked down, frowning again.  In a quieter tone she said: “I don’t we’ll ever be able to go home.  Everyone says it’s impossible to cross the ocean, and I don’t want to try to recreate the conditions that brought us here.”

“If you could go back, would you?  What if your sister left?”

She turned her frown to him.  “I think this is a conversation that Cullen and I should have, more than you and I.  I’m not going to make any decisions without his input.  As much as you say he’s ‘pretty lost on me’, we haven’t spoken of the future.  We know what we both feel, right now, but this is new enough that we haven’t talked about spending the rest of our lives together.  I’d need to know whether he’d even consider it, to entertain your questions about whether I’d give up everything my life was back home so that I could stay here.”

“So you would stay, if he wanted you to,” Varric surmised.  She made a face.

“Oh, for—!  Why do you even care?”

“While we might not be bosom buddies, I know enough about Curly to realize the Maker’s thrown mud in his face at every turn.  And, despite it all, Curly keeps trying to do the right thing.  He deserves some good in his life.”

Piper eyed him suspiciously.  He tried to look innocent and solemn.  Piper sighed.  “And you’ve got money riding on this.”

Varric shrugged, found out.  “Just a little.”

“If Cullen knew, he’d dropkick you from the battlements, you know that right?”

“And that’s why he’s not going to find out.”

“You’re lucky that  _ I’m _ not going to dropkick you off the battlements, if only because I’m not strong enough.”

“I rest easy knowing my muscles are too big for you to handle,” Varric quipped.  “But in all seriousness, you should give some thought to the questions I asked; you don’t really want to be caught without an answer when Curly asks you, do you?”

She gave him an annoyed look.  “No, really, bets aside, why  _ do  _ you care?  Were you serious about thinking he deserves some good in his life?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging a little.  “Has he told you about… everything?”

“Kinloch, Kirkwall, the lyrium?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.  “Yes.  He’s told me everything.  So really, I agree that he deserves a good turn, but I’m surprised you share the sentiment.  Not that I expect you to wish him  _ ill _ , but, well, you don’t seem that close.  I expect a more indifferent attitude.”

“We traveled together when the Seeker dragged me here from the Marches,” Varric admitted.  “Everyone on that ship got real familiar with the sound of someone screaming themself awake.  What time Cullen didn’t spend waking us all with his nightmares, he spent hanging over the deck railing, vomiting up even the memory of food.  And if  _ that  _ wasn’t enough to make me feel bad for the guy, I’ve been watching him trying to become a better person than the asshole Knight-Captain I’d met him as.  He hates himself, you know, for what he let happen in Kirkwall.  Takes all the fun out of being angry with him.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” she said.  “You knew him in Kirkwall, when he was at his worst.  You can compare who he is now with who he was then, and that you see a positive difference… I’m glad.  Not everyone believes in redemption, and even those who do, not all believe everyone should have a chance at it.  I’m well aware there are people out there who think Cullen is damned for his action or inaction in Kirkwall.  But nobody is in a position to throw stones; we’re  _ all  _ damned, for one thing or another.  Life is about striving to be better, to always do better.  If we’re not allowed to change, to learn, we’re dead.”

She visibly shut herself up, taking a deep breath and holding it.  “Sorry.  Didn’t mean to go off like that.”

Varric shrugged.  “I don’t disagree with you.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, then shook her head.  “Anyway, I was going to meet Lyra…”

“Sure.”

“And Varric… I know the answers to the questions you asked.  But they’re answers for Cullen.”

“Course, Birdie.  I get it.”


	60. Excuses

**Prompt: Excuses**

**Word count: 1,110**

* * *

 

It was a diplomatic catastrophe.  At best, it made the Inquisition look gullible, at worst incompetent.  Thank the Maker that the Inquisitor had decided against using Bla—

Josie realized she was lifting her quill to her mouth, to chew on the end.  A terrible habit and a tell she’d thought she’d trained out of herself years ago.  She deliberately set the quill down and folded her hands together, turning away from her desk to look out a window.

It was good that the Inquisitor had decided not to leverage the presence of a Grey Warden to gain alliances or trade deals.  It would have reflected much worse on the Inquisition if they had.  Alliances built on lies crumble, without fail.

She didn’t know quite how to feel.

There was betrayal there, of course.  Worry, for the Inquisition, and for… for Thom himself, she could admit.  Anger, because everything was  _ going so well _ , and now  _ this _ and  _ how dare he _ .  Sorrow and heartbreak, because she’d thought…

Which of those was the appropriate response?  Should she be angry for what he’d risked of the Inquisition, with his lies?  Should she be sad for the loss of a stalwart companion, a friend?  Part of her did not want to deal with this, wanted to run away and ignore it all, but that was not realistic.  She was the Inquisition’s Ambassador, and smoothing all this over was her job, no matter what her personal stake in it all was.

She turned as the door to her office opened, and Leliana appeared in the frame.  Her fellow Advisor’s pale eyes found her immediately, but Leliana still softly called: “Josie?”

“Leliana,” Josephine replied, moving away from the window and back toward her desk.  Leliana took the cue, and approached the other side of the desk, her hands clasped behind her back.

“We have another missive from the Inquisitor,” Leliana said.  Her voice was still gentle, a change from how she so often spoke with a cool distance while attending the Inquisition’s business.  Josie knew it was because of her; Leliana had, of course, known about the tentative relationship that had been developing between her and Blackw—

“What does it say?” she asked briskly.

“Cullen writes that the Inquisitor would like for us to have Rainier released into our custody, to be judged by the Inquisition.”

“Oh,” Josie said, a little numbly.  She closed her eyes, trying not to think about what that would mean.  Her mind did anyway.

She’d be representing the Inquisition, would have to tuck away her personal feelings on the matter in favor of presenting the accepted Inquisition response.  It wasn’t too different from what she did for any other situation, but never before had it been quite so personal.  She’d never felt as conflicted as she did in this.  And then, once she’d had Rainier extradited, she would have to stand witness to the judgment.  And she… wasn’t sure where the Inquisitor stood in this.  At one point she’d never have imagined that the Inquisitor would use Tranquility, but they had all been proven wrong on that count.  Would this betrayal of Rainier’s be enough to to elicit a similarly unexpected decision?  Could she stand by if he was sentenced to hang, or… or worse?

“I have connections,” Leliana said.  “I can get Rainier out of Orlais without it being traced back to us.”

“No.” Josie took a breath, and continued, hiding the quaver in her voice: “That would mean keeping whatever judgment the Inquisitor decides on, and any subsequent events, hidden from all of Thedas.  That is unrealistic, considering the unavoidable fact that a number of our agents and soldiers would be involved.  It is too large a secret.  But, after Halamshiral, the throne owes us a favor.  I can petition for special dispensation, and we will likely receive it; there is no need for subterfuge.”

She was aware of Leliana’s searching gaze, but did not meet it.  Finally, Leliana replied: “Very well.  But I don’t have to tell you that time is short; pen the petition quickly, and I’ll send my fastest bird.”

“It won’t take long at all,” Josephine said, a draft already floating in her mind.  “If you wait, I can  have it scribed and in your hand momentarily.”

Leliana nodded silently, shifting to the side to politely avoid hovering over Josephine as she pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and inked her best pen-nib.  Her hand was swift and steady, the words flowing easily out onto the parchment in her most elegant hand.  It was, indeed, but the work of a moment; she was well-practiced with the proper language to use in a missive addressed to the Empress of Orlais, as well as how to quickly scribe without smearing or spotting ink.  She tossed some pouncing dust onto it, tapped it off, and quickly added the ribbons and seals to make it official.

Then she handed it to Leliana, who took it and hesitated a bare moment before turning to leave.  Josephine could not help herself, and asked what she’d promised herself she would not.  “Leliana.  Did you… Did you know?”

Her friend stopped halfway to the door, and turned so that she could read the sincerity in her expression.  “No.  I knew he was keeping secrets, but I had believed them to be the usual secrets Wardens keep.  Their order is notoriously tight-lipped and insular.  I believed his evasions a particularly strong devotion to keeping their mysteries.”

There was an edge of self-disgust to her voice, the echo of her own annoyance that she, the Spymaster, had missed the signs of a liar in her own house.  That, more than anything, persuaded Josephine that she was telling the truth.

“Thank you,” she said, and Leliana gave a tight nod, her gait stiff as she slipped from the office.  Josephine cleaned off her pen-nib and capped her inkwell, deep in thought.  They were all having reactions like Leliana’s: Self-blame, anger half turned inward, questioning whether they should have seen it, should have known.  Going back over every memory, seeing them with fresh eyes and realizing there were signs, but they hadn’t noticed.  Minds stumbling for excuses, for rationales.  And Josephine knew it was all useless, that hind-sight was such that they never could confidently say whether they should have realized.  Everything was so clear at the end, but how much could they truly have known at any given point?

What was done, was done.  Now they had to deal with the consequences.  All of them, however much they might want to ignore the more painful ones.

Josie went back to her work, and tried to breathe.


	61. Dark

**Prompt: Dark**

**Word count: 1,038**

* * *

 

Lyra sat on the Inquisitor’s throne, wishing she’d had the foresight to demand one more like a judge’s bench rather than a monarch’s seat of power, and looked down at Rainier’s bowed head.  She was very aware of her Advisors and Inner Circle, arrayed about the main hall, as well as the noble and merchant guests who were in residence at Skyhold.  She understood why judgments had to be public, but that didn’t stop this from feeling like a spectacle.

She forced the feelings back, her ‘I am the Inquisitor’ bearing firmly in place.  Her back was straight, shoulders back; the metal Inquisition emblem on the back of the throne disallowed resting any weight back against it, forcing her posture upright and severe.  She found herself lifting her chin higher than she was naturally inclined, as if looking down her nose at everyone before her.

“You are lucky your lies did not cause the Inquisition more harm than the momentary embarrassment of being taken for gullible fools,” she told Rainier, projecting her voice powerfully so that she filled the hall without having to actually shout.  “Do you realize how badly this could have gone?  We have engaged with Darkspawn a number of times, ventured briefly into the Deep Roads.  What if we had walked into an ambush, a group of them larger than we could have handled, because you did not, in fact, have the ability to sense them that true Wardens do?  What if there had been Wardens at Adamant who’d known Blackwall well, and wanted to know who you were?  What if we’d used your status as a Warden to leverage resources or alliances?”

Rainier drooped where he knelt, not lifting his head as he silently weathered the chastisement.  Lyra paused then continued: “You lied to escape your sentence.  The truth is that you killed innocents, civilian children and women, simply for money.  It is a heavy crime.  What punishment can be levied for it?  Execution?  Hanging, as Orlais would sentence you?”

She ignored the wave of gasps and whispers that passed through the crowd.  She tilted her head, but didn’t shift her regard from him, letting him feel the weight of her stare.  “And yet… What have you done in the years since your crime?  Did you live fat off the payment for that innocent blood?  No.  You traveled, were recruited to the Wardens, and when your sponsor was killed in action, you continued the work he had been doing.  Protecting people, the common people, from whatever threatened them.  Darkspawn, bandits, rogue animals.  You joined the Inquisition, seeing the need for strong sword-arms to stop the flux of demons from Rifts, to stop Corypheus’ plan to tear the world asunder.”

“None of that changes what I did,” Rainier finally spoke, his voice rasping and low.  His head lifted slightly, but he avoided looking her in the face.

“No,” Lyra said, “it does not.  However, it does make a point.  A point that I believe should be considered.”

She paused to let the new wave of whisperings fade.

“When I met you, Thom Rainier, you were teaching farmers to defend themselves against bandits.  I’d like you to consider the answer to this question, then: If you had been apprehended and hung for your crime soon after it had occurred, what would have happened to those farmers?  What would have happened to all those you have protected in the time you have spent as Blackwall?”

“I expect someone else would have helped them.”

“Perhaps.  Or perhaps they would be dead now.”  She shifted on her throne, propping an elbow on one arm.  “Do you know why the Grey Wardens are allowed to conscript even the worst criminals, even as their head is on the chopping block?  It is not a mercy.  At best, a Warden can hope to live for thirty years after Joining, give or take.  On average, it is substantially less than that.  But even ten, five years of another sword against the Darkspawn?  That is something to consider.  Let’s not forget what just one Warden can do, or, indeed, what only two accomplished only ten years ago.”

There is another stir in the hall at this unsubtle reminder of the Fifth Blight, and Lyra paused again to let it pass.

“You betrayed your honor as a man of the sword, Thom Rainier, when you spilled innocent blood.  There are two paths before us.  Down one, we take you out to the courtyard and the headsman.  But death is so final, and so wasteful.  I much prefer the second path, where we honor the intentions of the real Gordon Blackwall, and you take the Joining and become a Grey Warden.”

He was obviously surprised by the pronouncement, and glanced up, finally.  Lyra met his gaze, forthright.  “I tell you again, this is not a mercy.  Becoming a Grey Warden is still a death sentence, for it  _ will  _ kill you one day.  But until that day comes for you, Thom Rainier, you will pay for your crimes with service.  You took innocent lives, and nothing can ever change that.  But at the very least, you can spend the rest of your life protecting others.”

“Will the Wardens even take me, my Lady Inquisitor?”

“Yes.  I’ve already written to Stroud about the matter.  He suggests that we wait for the Joining proper until after we defeat Corypheus, but he readily accepts the petition of your recruitment.”

Rainier nodded and bowed his head again.  “I will accept whatever sentence you deem fitting, my Lady Inquisitor.”

“Good.  Then, Thom Rainier, I sentence you to service to the Inquisition until such time as Corypheus and the threats he poses are ended, whereupon you will be sent to the Grey Wardens for your Joining ceremony.”

Lyra gestured as Josephine scribbled quickly to record the proceedings, and the two soldiers on duty for the Judgment stepped forward to release Rainier’s bindings.  He straightened, then gave a crisp Inquisition salute, and allowed himself to be led off.  Lyra allowed a few moments for Josephine to finish up, then said: “Are there any other matters to bring forward?”

“None, Inquisitor,” replied Cullen solemnly.

“Then we are dismissed,” Lyra proclaimed.  “Thank you for your time.”


	62. Nowhere and Nothing

**Prompt: Nowhere and Nothing**

**Word count: 1,248**

* * *

 

“How long will this take?” Piper asked unhappily, clenching her hands in an attempt to keep them from shaking.

“Getting everyone to and from the Arbor Wilds will be… a month?  I guess?  I mean, I and my team end up coming back a lot sooner, because we come through the Eluvian, but everyone else has to march back…” Lyra bit her lip, brow furrowing in thought.

“And it’s going to be a… a big battle?”

“Yeah.  Yes.  It’ll… I mean, I’ve done my best to bleed Corypheus of his army; I took some of his mages and some of his templars, and I stole a bunch of Grey Wardens from him, but there are quite a lot of people from all those groups that were corrupted before I could do anything about it, so… Yeah.  It’ll be a large battle.”

“Will the, um, the casualties be very bad?”  Piper was pretty sure her nails, short as they were, were drawing blood from her palms as her fists clenched even tighter.  Lyra sucked in a breath that was half gasp, turning her face away and grimacing as if in pain.

“I… I don’t really know.  I mean, in the game, the only outcome possible was that you won, and the price of that was never really discussed.  It was considered a victory, that’s all.  I would  _ guess _ that means casualties weren’t too heavy, but I’m not sure by what metric it was considered a victory.”

“Okay,” Piper breathed.  “Okay.  A victory.  Well, I can accept that for now.”

“I mean, none of the Inner Circle are hurt,” Lyra offered.  “But, well, if we’ve changed things…”

“There’s no real guarantee,” Piper finished.  “Yeah, I understand.  I just hate this.  I hate the fighting and the not knowing.  And… and I have to send you, and you don’t really know how to fight.  I know you were taking lessons from Sera, but you’ve never really liked violence.  And I’m also sending off my friends, and  _ Cullen _ .  It something goes really wrong, I might lose everyone I care about in one fell swoop.”

“You  _ won’t _ ,” Lyra replied fiercely.  “I swear you won’t.  I will fucking claw my way back from the dead to make sure you’re not left alone, Pips.  I swear.”

Lyra smiled, but felt the expression wobble a little.  She tried to hide it by wrapping her arms around her sister, holding her tight.  “Be careful.  Be more careful than you’ve ever been in your life.”

“I will,” Lyra promised, fervently.  Her arms wrapped around Piper and they held each other for a long moment.

When Piper’s arms finally loosened a bit, Lyra pulled back to quirk a grin at her.  “So, have you said goodbye to Cullen yet?”

Piper felt her face flame.  She groaned.  “Seriously, why does everyone have to tease me about that?  No, I haven’t yet.  I was going to after I could be sure I didn’t have a panic attack in his arms.”

“So, spending time in his arms, are you?”

“Fucking shut up, Duckie.”

“What?  I just want to know if I should wait up for you, or if you had other plans for tonight.”

“I…” Piper hesitated, avoiding eye contact.  “I dunno.  I’ll probably be late, though.  Is that okay?  I can not, if you don’t want to be alone.”

“No, no, it’s fine.  Seriously, I’m really happy for you.  Both of you.  Besides, I’ve got Krem for cuddles.”

“Oh?” Piper blinked; she hadn’t been aware of that development.  She eyed Lyra.  “He does know that you…”

“Oh yeah, he gets that I just like hugs.  He’s got Dalish for sexytimes.  And before you ask, yes, she also understands.  We’ve got it worked out fine.”

“Okay.  As long as everyone’s happy.”

“I’m good,” Lyra agreed.  “He gives good hugs.  And sometimes Dalish joins in, so yay.”

“I’m glad you’ve got them.  I felt a little bad that I was leaving you without a snuggle-buddy.”

“I knew you’d need to find some comfort for yourself eventually,” Lyra shrugged.  “And besides, it’s not like we don’t get occasional cuddles still.”

“Right…” Piper said, biting her lip.  “So… you’re… happy here?”

“Um.  I mean, I guess?  Wha—” Lyra’s expression changed.  “Oh.”

There was a small silence, then she continued: “I feel like I warned you about this.  Didn’t I?”

“Kinda didn’t have a choice,” Piper said.  “I didn’t make a conscious decision to love him, it just happened.”

Lyra sighed.  “Well, it could be worse, I guess.  He could be Orlesian.”

Piper quirked a tiny smile, but it faded almost immediately, her worry still prominent.  “We, uh, we haven’t talked about… the future, but…”

“Cullen doesn’t do casual,” Lyra said dryly.  “If you’re in this, know that you’re in this for the long-run.”

Piper nodded.  “That what I wanted to talk to  _ you  _ about.  I love him, but you’re my sister.  And I… Well, I’ve already shown what I’m willing to do for you.  I wanted to know what your plans were.”

“Honestly, I have no idea if we’ll ever be able to go home,” Lyra admitted, and Piper nodded, having had the same thought.  “I… I dunno, I mean there are things I miss about home, but… There are things I’d miss about this place, too.  And, well, I’m different.  I’ve been changed by all of this.  I don’t know if I could fit back into my life.”

She looked, Piper thought, wistful.  Regretful.

“I…” Piper said carefully, and swallowed against the knot of nerves that threatened to choke her, “I think I would stay.  Here.  If we ever had the chance to go home.  I’d want to stay.  Despite all the danger, the violence here, there’s… I’ve never felt more alive, or  _ engaged _ .  There’s wonder here, too.  And love, and friendship.”

“If you’re staying, then I’m staying, easily,” Lyra said.  “You do realize that if it’d been  _ you _ , who fell through a Rift and disappeared, I would have done the same thing you did?  I would have gone after you.  This is the same, really.  There’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t follow.”

There was nothing else for Piper to do but throw her arms around her sister and squeeze.

“You know, I saw this coming a mile away,” Lyra said, muffled in Piper’s shoulder.

“Did you?  Even after you warned me?”

“Oh hell yes.  I kinda figured the warning would do nothing.  Given half a chance, you and Cullen would fall in love.”

“You know we haven’t actually…  _ said  _ it.”

“What, really?”  Lyra pulled away, looking completely astonished.  “What are you waiting for?”

“I know I was worried about whether we’d stay.  Probably he was, too,” Piper admitted.

“We’re staying.  Go tell him!”

Piper went still.  “What, right now?”

“ _ Yes _ .  Go!”  Lyra pushed her by her shoulders toward the door.  Piper balked.

“B-but, I’m not—What if—”

“Piper, the man loves you more than he loves life and would devote everything he is to you at the drop of a hat.  And you love him, right?  You should tell him.”

“Do you really think so?”

“What, that he loves you, or that you should tell him you love him?  Because yes.  For both.”

Piper knew her face was flushed pink with pleasure at hearing the assurance.  It was idiotic, because she could see how much Cullen loved her in the way he looked at her—so warmly—but to know that other people saw it, too…

“Okay,” she said, “I’m going.  I’ll tell him.”


	63. Summer Haze*

**Prompt: Summer Haze***

**Word count: 1,434**

* * *

 

“The rest of Captain Rylen’s men will monitor the situation in the Approach while he marches with two squads to rendezvous with us in the Arbor Wilds,” Cullen said, crossing off one item on his mental to-do list.  The lieutenant he was addressing saluted.

“Yes, ser.  We’ll begin preparations at once,” she said, and turned to leave.  Cullen didn’t stop to acknowledge it, attention turning to the next lieutenant as he picked up one of the reports currently burying his desk.

“Our relief efforts in Sahrnia, Crestwood, the Fallow Mire, and the Exalted Plains will be temporarily reduced as we pull soldiers out for the assault.  Ambassador Montilyet has arranged for assistance from neighboring banns and lords to supplement our forces in those efforts.  We must coordinate with them so as not to leave our duties derelict as the transfer takes place.  Sister Leliana has dedicated ravens for communications with the camps, and you have your orders.”

“Aye, ser.”  The lieutenant saluted and left, the door creaking loudly as it swung on its hinges.  Cullen raised his voice slightly to combat the noise.

“We’ll be carrying most of the resources we’ll need for the action in the Arbor Wilds, but some of them are having to be ordered from Val Royeaux and delivered along with the chevaliers who will be our allies.  Each battalion is to collect and administer to their rations individually.”  He handed out rosters and lists to each of the battalion captains.  As he did, he caught sight of a slight figure lingering just by the door, and nearly choked on his surprise.  Piper.  She must have slipped in when the last lieutenant slipped out.  He blinked his shock away and yanked himself back on task.  “You each have power to command as many wagons as you need to carry your battalion’s supplies, and you hold in your hands now a receipt for the goods the Orlesians will have for you in the Wilds.  All you must do is present it to their camp quartermaster for fulfillment.  Understood?”

“Yes, ser,” chorused their voices.  He nodded.

“Dismissed.”  They filed out of the office, Cullen following and shutting the door firmly behind them.  Sighing, he let himself relax from the stern bearing of command, and turned to Piper with a softer look.

“Still hard at work so late, commander?” she asked with a faint smile, reaching out to grasp his arms just above his elbows—the only place not covered in armor—as his own hands settled around her waist.

“There’s always something more to do,” he agreed on a sigh, edging closer to her but remaining mindful of the hard wall of his cuirass between them.  She hummed in understanding, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders.  Her thumbs brushed against the bare skin of his throat over his gorget.  She watched her hands touch him for a moment.

“I’m… frightened.  For you.  For everyone,” she broke the silence with a near-whisper.  She stared fixedly at her hands on his shoulders, refusing to meet his gaze.  Embarrassed?  Cullen gave her a little squeeze.

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” he said, reaching up to collect her hands in his.  Her fingers curled around his, and he felt a flicker of annoyance that his were still encased in gloves.  He felt the pressure of her grip, but not the warmth.

“I’m afraid that’s going to happen with or without your approval,” she muttered.  “I’m a nervous sort of person.”

“Tactically, I can’t lead from the front this time,” he told her, trying to reassure, “the Wilds aren’t like normal battlefields.  With the forest, and how the fighting will be in pockets… I’ll need to be in the center of our forces, not getting lost in the trees ahead.  I’ll be fine.”

She finally met his eyes, her blue gaze obviously filled with concern and fear.  Her hands clutched his.  “Please be safe.”

“I will,” he said, voice matching hers, low and gentle.  His head was dipped, hers tipped up, putting her forehead level with his mouth.  He took advantage of it to press a kiss to the furrow between her eyebrows.  “I have a song for you.”

“Oh?”

“Mm,” Cullen hummed affirmative.  “A Fereldan folk song.”

He gathered her against him, gently guiding her head to rest against one of the front panels of fur from his mantle, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.  Her hands wrapped themselves in his surcoat, clinging to him like a limpet.  He lifted his head so he wasn’t singing directly into her ear.

_“Fare you well, my dear, I must be gone,_

_And leave you for a while._

_If I roam away, I’ll come back again,_

_Tho’ I roam ten thousand miles, my dear,_

_Tho’ I roam ten thousand miles._

 

_“So fair thou art, my bonny lass,_

_So deep in love as I._

_But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love,_

_‘Til the stars fall from the sky, my dear,_

_‘Til the stars fall from the sky._

 

_“The sea will never run dry, my dear,_

_Nor the rocks never melt with the sun._

_But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love,_

_‘Til all these things be done, my dear,_

_‘Til all these things be done._

 

_“O yonder doth sit that little turtle dove,_

_He doth sit on yonder high tree,_

_A’making a moan for the loss of his love,_

_As I will do for thee, my dear,_

_As I will do for thee.”_

His voice rang off the stone walls, filling the room, and—if Cullen was allowed a bit of vanity—wrapping them in the warmth of his baritone.  He felt Piper give a pleasant shiver as the final note faded.

“That was beautiful, Cullen, thank you,” she said, twisting her head to look up at him.  The corner of her mouth turned up.  “And perhaps thematically chosen?”

He chuckled briefly.  “Perhaps.  It’s also quite an old Fereldan song, and I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I did.  I do.  Very much,” she agreed.  She kissed his chin swiftly, and he reflexively smiled.  Her eyes were bright as she smiled back, and they had a moment staring and smiling into each other’s face.  But Cullen’s mind was not quiet, and a thought struck him that had his smile fading, his eyes dropping away, and his embrace slacking.

“This battle…” he started, “it… might well be the final battle, fulfilling our purpose in stopping Corypheus.  I find myself thinking about… what might happen, once this is all over.”

Nervous, he let go of her entirely, one hand automatically rising to grip the back of his neck in a tell he _knew_ he had but couldn’t seem to shake.  He turned toward his desk, unable to face her directly.  What if she didn’t…?

“I’m not going to want to move on.  From you,” he said, voice becoming awkward and clipped.  “I don’t know if you… That is, what you… If you meant to return home…”

“No!” she blurted abruptly.  She took a step toward him.  “We’re not leaving.  I mean, Lyra and me, we want to stay.   _I_ want to stay.  Um, with you.”

“You do?” Cullen asked, dumbfounded, and winced at himself.

“Oh, yes,” she said.  “I love you.”

“You do?” he asked again, but with a very different tone to his voice.  He stalked closer to her, watching as her pupils dilated with his approach.  “You love me?”

Mutely, she nodded.  Her eyes were very wide as she stared at him as if transfixed.  Her head tipped back as he drew nearer, keeping her gaze on his face.

“You love me,” he repeated, soft with wonder.

“I love you,” she affirmed, breathily.  He ducked down to kiss her, his hands bracing her shoulders.

“Maker,” he groaned.  “I never thought—I hadn’t dared hope— _I love you._ ”

He nearly growled the last, fierce with the strength of the feeling.  He kissed her again with a commensurate force of feeling and she reciprocated eagerly.

“I love you,” he mumbled against her lips, cutting off her own echo of the words with another insistent kiss.  He felt awash in the emotions running through him, relief and wonder and joy and surprise.  He pulled back to look down at her, seeing evidence of the same emotions in her glowing expression.  He stared at her through the summer haze of his love.  “Stay with me.  Tonight.  Will you stay with me?”

Her gaze sharpened, and he knew she understood what he was asking with his half-whispered question.  She nodded, lips parting as her breath quickened.

“Good,” he breathed, and kissed her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So "The Turtledove" is not a Fereldan song; it is English, but I figured it'd be nice to add to Thedas' repertoire. Is Cullen a baritone? Who knows; he is now. It's apparently the most common male voice?? And Turtledove was written for baritone, so there it is. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IGKPa7S1fUk
> 
> I don't think I'm going to have smut in this; I'd like to keep it accessible for everyone. If I find myself inspired, I'll have a separate work in which Cullen and Piper get jiggy with it, but I've never actually written smut, so we'll see.


	64. Exhaustion

**Prompt: Exhaustion**

**Word count: 1,143**

* * *

 

The Arbor Wilds tumbled Solas’s emotions around like a shell caught in surf.  He swung from one exhausting extreme to the other, struggling to maintain his composure.

First he would feel guilty.  It was unsurprising, as there were many things he should feel guilty for, and there would be many more before all this was over.  He felt the prick of guilt, centuries old but still sharp, for the death of his once dearest friend: He should have protected Mythal.  He felt guilt every time he set eye on an elf, those pale and faded shards that were what was left of the People, after his Veil had severed them from their power.  He felt guilt when they arrived at Mythal’s temple, saw the state of it, the state of the sentinels.  Cursed to a half-life, immortal but missing the Fade, the magic that made them  _ vital _ .  They were tired, caught in a slow decline, the last members of a dying race.  And it was Solas’s fault.  It had been he who had struck that poisoned blow.  He hadn’t intended this when he’d created the Veil, but it was unmistakably the consequence of his actions.

Then, thinking about the wreckage of the world and his people would make him angry.  He was furious with the Evanuris, whose arrogant cruelty had forced his hand, drove him to create the Veil and seal them, and the Fade, away.  He was angry at Corypheus, who should not have survived activating the Orb, who was now endangering everything.  He was angry at the Red Templars, the Venatori, the Grey Wardens, and the Inquisition, who trampled the grasses in this holy place and brought ruin to the last bastion of Mythal’s power and the last living Elvhen.  Sentinel bodies lay interspersed among the others, jagged holes in Solas’s world.  He was angry with Morrigan, and her blatant grasping for power, power that she did not even fully understand.  Every word that passed her lips regarding the ancient elves heated his rage; what did this shemlen know, this witch who pretended at wisdom?  Nothing.  And yet she spoke to ‘educate’  _ him _ .  If she only knew to whom she spoke.  He could the wolf inside stir, eyes slitting open and lip curling back from fangs... 

Solas was also angry with the Inquisitor, who had drunk from the Well of Sorrows.  He was furious that the choice was between her, and Morrigan.  He did not want the Well destroyed, but also he did not want that knowledge in the hands of either woman, if for different reasons.  Morrigan, he felt, would misuse the power, too greedy for it.  And the Inquisitor… she would be more dangerous to him.  Would the Well let her know who he was?  Would if give her the power to stop him?

Worry, fear, washed through him then.  

“Can the Inquisition really afford for its leader to be bound to the will of a third party?” he’d asked her, carefully hiding his own personal concerns behind concerns for their cause.

“Where I come from,” she’d said, slowly and after an extended pause, “there was once a library at a place called Alexandria.  It was legendary for having had a large repository of scrolls and tablets, and the knowledge contained within it was never really quantified.  Which made it a massive disaster when it was burned and destroyed.  Even hundreds of years later, it is held up as the single greatest loss of knowledge and information in all history.  It is not known how far that loss set us back.  How far would we have advanced if we hadn’t lost all that knowledge?  And what pieces of it have we still not rediscovered?

“The Well sounds like the Elvhen Library of Alexandria.  I would have preferred for an elf to take it, because it’s their culture, but the sentinels will not.  You will not.  We do not know a single elf who would.  Therefore, it falls to Morrigan or I.  I will not let all of that knowledge die, nor will I allow Corypheus to have it.  And I will not allow Morrigan to do this to herself.  It is a burden I will take, myself.”

Solas had listened with worry, anger, and gratitude fighting within the confines of his ribs.  He couldn’t disagree with the sentiment; loss of knowledge was a tragedy and he did wish to prevent this latest crippling blow to the history of the Elvhen in a long series of crippling blows.  But he couldn’t help but fear that it would work against him, in his long game.

The witch herself had not been pleased.  “Will not allow?  Who are you to make such a decision for me?”

“Forgive me, Morrigan, but you don’t know what you’re doing.  You don’t know the true cost here,” the Inquisitor had shifted her earnest and piercing gaze to the irate woman.

“And you do?”

“Yes,” she’d replied quietly, and Solas had wondered if, perhaps, she  _ did  _ understand the price of the Well.  “Can’t you hear it?  The Well is  _ hungry _ , Morrigan.  This isn’t… isn’t something that you ‘gain’, like some hard-fought lesson.  It is a burden, a  _ sacrifice _ .”

“And if I am a willing sacrifice, who are you to stop me?”

“I’m stopping you because you  _ aren’t _ willing.  Or you wouldn’t be if you really knew what was going on here.”

“Again you hint at some knowledge that you possess that I do not.  If you are so sure I would step away, why not tell me?” Morrigan had sneered, and the Inquisitor had glanced toward Solas then away, very quickly.

“I can’t tell you,” she said.  And Solas felt a chill.  How much  _ did  _ she understand?  How much  _ did  _ she know?  Was her reticence to voice it aloud for his sake, or Morrigan’s?  Mythal’s current incarnation, Flemeth of the Chasind, was the witch’s mother, so it wasn’t inconceivable that the Inquisitor only knew of Mythal and didn’t want to air the woman’s family history in front of others.

Or perhaps she knew who Solas was, and didn’t want to reveal this secret of the Elvhen gods to Morrigan.  But if she did know that, how could she have let him remain in the Inquisition?

_ She couldn’t know _ , he’d assured himself, as Morrigan had finally capitulated, with ill grace.  He watched with hidden unease as the Inquisitor waded into the Well, and began to glow.

_ She can’t know _ , he thought to himself now, watching the Inquisitor’s head tilt and eyes go distant as the voices of the Well spoke to her again.  Even in the safety of Skyhold, Solas felt ill at ease, an almost paranoia.   _ She can’t know, or else she would be driving me out. _

But there was a strange sense of knowing in the depths of her gaze, and a shadow lingering over Solas.


	65. Boundaries

**Prompt: Boundaries**

**Word count: 1,070**

* * *

 

Leliana knew that the Inquisitor had put her weight behind Leliana’s bid for Divine, and that the support of the Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, was not negligible in the eyes of the Chantry, however they had first viewed the Inquisition.  Still, it surprised her to receive a formal missive, with all the seals and ribbons that entailed, requesting she make an appearance at the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux.

The timing was not ideal.  Their armies had only just returned from the Arbor Wilds, where the Inquisitor had won a decisive victory against Corypheus.  One that she told her advisors would likely drive the ancient Darkspawn magister into attacking.

“We’ve opposed him at every turn,” she’d said, brow furrowing.  “Pricking at him like thorns. We’ve chipped away at his support, killing or arresting his allies, stopping his plots in Halamshiral, wresting control of the mines in Sahrnia away from him, shattering his activities across all of southern Thedas.  And now we’ve crushed his remaining forces. I’ve stolen the Well of Sorrows from him and escaped unscathed. He won’t let that lie; he is arrogant and prideful. He’ll want to strike at us directly.”

Leliana concurred.  So of course she could not spend weeks away from the Inquisition, answering the College of Clerics’ questions.  Not when that attack could come at any time.

But the Clerics were not particularly patient, and Leliana found herself weighing her different duties and ambitions against each other.  Could the Inquisition function two weeks without its spymaster? Most likely, at this point. If this had come about in the beginning, when they were still scrambling to catch up to Corypheus’ plots, understand where they needed to act to counter his next move, then she wouldn’t even be considering leaving.  But they were no longer at such a delicate juncture. Now, their enemy was all but hamstrung. They weren’t waiting on vital intelligence to tell them what was next, now they were controlling the game.

Still, Leliana was reluctant to leave her post.   _ What if  _ was a thought that passed through her mind frequently.  What if they missed something? What if they were wrong?  What if something happened that they had never considered?

Just because Corypheus was hamstrung didn’t mean he wasn’t still dangerous.

But if she told the Clerics no, and they did not wish to allow her to postpone the interviews, who would they turn to as the new Divine?  Was Cassandra still a candidate? Or would they dismiss the possibility since the Seeker was also a member of the Inquisition? Who else was there?  Many of the Chantry hierarchy had died at the Conclave along with Justinia. There weren’t many qualified candidates left. None that Leliana believed acceptable.  Could she truly afford to pass up the opportunity to be the change she wished to see in the Chantry? Could Thedas? The bloodshed that had erupted time and time again, rooted in the Chantry,  _ urged  _ by the Chantry, said no.  There had to be change, drastic change.  Leliana could see that, even if others couldn’t.

What could she stand to risk more?

Struggling with the decision, Leliana spent hours praying and meditating before the small private altar in her cote, and the larger altar of Skyhold’s public Chantry.  Finally, in something she would not admit was desperation, she sought out the Inquisitor.

Over the last year, Lyra had demonstrated a high degree of intelligence, thoughtfulness, and justness.  Leliana had come to admire her as much as she had admired Elissa. Lyra had not led the Inquisition astray, though there had been times when Leliana had doubted her.  Her outlook and opinions were ones Leliana valued.

“They want you to go  _ now _ ?” Lyra asked, eyebrows shooting up.  “What the fuck? Don’t they know there’s a fucking  _ war _ on?  No. You know what?  I’m not surprised at all.  I mean, they’ve been like this from the get-go.   _ Jesus _ .”

Leliana waited as the Inquisitor grumbled for a moment, a scowl fierce on her face.  Lyra closed her eyes and took a calming breath, then met Leliana’s gaze. “Sorry. I just… get frustrated.  But you came to me for something. How can I help?”

Leliana abruptly, and unexpectedly, found the words difficult to force from her lips.  To admit to uncertainty, to give up control of the situation… it went against her instincts.  Even though she trusted Lyra, even though she had made the decision to come to her, she had to battle herself to speak the words: “I require advice.”

“Oh.” The Inquisitor blinked a moment, then gestured.  “Okay. Um, would you like to sit?”

Leliana nodded tersely, once, and followed her into her quarters.  There was a fireplace with a pair of high-backed, thickly-upholstered chairs in front of it; they sat there.  Once situated, Lyra folded her hands in her lap and devoted all her attention to Leliana. “So. Hit me.”

“Pardon?” Leliana didn’t think she was actually asking to be struck.  It was probably one of Lyra’s odd turns of phrase. Sure enough, the Inquisitor’s mouth quirked.

“I mean, tell me what the problem is.”

Leliana took a breath, let it out, and explained.  Lyra listened carefully; her eyes sometimes tracked away from Leliana, but they remained thoughtful and sharp.  She absently ran her finger-tips over her mouth, tapping her bottom lip as Leliana finished outlining the situation.  After a thoughtful pause, Lyra looked back at Leliana. “You want me to tell you which to choose?”

“Yes.  I trust you would lead me to the correct choice.”

“Hm.” Lyra pressed her lips together.  “This feels like a boundary I shouldn’t cross.  I mean, I’m the leader of the Inquisition, but… Your religion is very personal to you.  I don’t want to make decisions for you in regard to it.”

Disappointment swooped in her stomach.  Leliana bowed her head. “I understand. Forgive me for—”

“Hang on,” Lyra lifted a hand.  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I just… I’m not going to just  _ tell  _ you what to do.  Will you tell me more about how  _ you  _ feel about your choices?”

Leliana hesitated.  The last time she had opened up in such a way to anyone, it had been the Fifth Blight and she’d been sitting around a campfire with Elissa, Alistair bickering with Morrigan in the background and Sten engaged in a staring contest with Barkspawn.

Slowly, she settled back down into her chair, and started speaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may be slow for March... my life usually gets crazy around this time and I may not have the time I want for writing.


	66. Obsession

**Prompt: Obsession**

**Word count: 1,073**

* * *

 

The games had not really expanded on what consequences existed for an Inquisitor who drank from the Well of Sorrows.  There had been maybe one scene, showing the Inquisitor pressing a hand to their head as the voices of the Well spoke to them, but that was essentially it.  Lyra had always suspected it was more involved than that; everything else had implied that drinking of the Well of Sorrows was a significant burden, and she was pretty sure it meant more than just ‘you have voices in your head sometimes and Mythal might possess you’.

She was right.

The voices were always there, always whispering.  It was like constantly being next door to a conference room, hearing a multitude of voices muffled and indistinct through the walls.  Every once in a while, they waxed louder, and she could hear individual voices, make out words, sentences. They were in elvhen, but she could somehow understand them.  She had a knowledge of the ancient language that would rival Solas’s, now, not that she’d admit it to him. She’d seen how he looked at her recently. Wary. Sharp. A wolf who’d come face-to-face with another hunter.

She knew why, and knew what he feared.  He was right to fear. Beside the voices, the Well also gave her dreams.  Memories, really. She saw the faces of Elgar’nan, Andruil, June… all the ‘gods’.  She walked the halls of Arlathan. She watched a young Fen’Harel slip through shadows, needling his fellow gods, a trickster so like the tales of Loki she’d grown up with.   _ She knew him _ .  If she hadn’t already known who Solas was, it would have completely shattered his lies.

His fear made this dangerous.  What if he guessed what she knew?  What if he decided it was too much of a risk, letting her have this knowledge?  She remembered what Flemythal did to Kieran-the-Old-God-Child, and she remembered what Solas did to Flemythal.  Could one of them take the Well from her, or just kill her, in that same way?

She kind of wished that she’d let Morrigan take the Well.  Then it would be the witch’s problem, not hers. Morrigan had certainly  _ wanted  _ to, as arrogant as ever.  The look on her face when Flemeth had appeared and revealed herself to be Mytha had been intensely gratifying, though.   _ See, Morrigan, you don’t know everything!  And aren’t you glad you haven’t bound yourself to your mother, after so many years of trying to escape her? _

Just… now  _ Lyra  _ was bound to her.  Although, Solas would kill Mythal in the end.  Did that mean Lyra wouldn’t have to worry, or did the fact that Solas took in Mythal’s… soul, or whatever, mean that he had some leverage over her?  Did debts transfer?

It was a disconcerting thought.  He already had marked her, literally, and it had already cost her.  She wasn’t looking forward to losing her arm, but she wasn’t sure there was anything she could do to change that outcome.  It wasn’t something she could negotiate out of, or plan her way out of. The Anchor had always been unstable, had never been meant for her.  Eventually, it would begin tearing her apart and Solas would have to take it back. And she would lose her left hand, up to the elbow.

A doggy whine stirred Lyra from her morose musing, and she glanced down at Poe’s head in her lap.  Rey and Finn looked on with soulful eyes that matched their brother’s. She skritched Poe’s head and the mabari pressed harder into her lap in enjoyment.

“Oof, easy you big lug!”

Poe  _ bowff- _ ed, but eased some of his weight off her.  She stroked his velvety ears a little longer, smiling.  She’d taken on the dogs’ care for the day, one of the first days in a long time she’d had time to herself, knowing that they would help keep her from descending into the dark place that hovered at the edge of her mind.  After everything that had happened, and with everything she knew would happen, Lyra was surprised she hadn’t cracked yet. Having so many people, and dogs, around her to support her certainly helped. Especially having her sister, who had always been able to ground her, here helped.

It didn’t feel like all that long ago that she’d woken up in the dungeon at Haven, disoriented and in pain and 99% certain she was going crazy.  She’d been obsessing over Dragon Age, she would admit, but she’d never thought it would have been bad enough that she’d imagine she was  _ in Thedas _ during what had to be a psychotic break or something.

There had barely been enough time to breathe, let alone come to grips with the increasingly obvious fact that she  _ wasn’t  _ hallucinating or dreaming.  For  _ months  _ there hadn’t been enough time.  Hell, there practically  _ still  _ wasn’t enough time.  Maybe she still was hallucinating.  Maybe she’d been in a car accident and all this was a dream contained in the breath before she died.  How could she know otherwise? Hadn’t there been some crazy physics math thing back home that showed that the world might be some kind of hologram?  Who knew what the fuck was real and not real.

In the end, though, did it matter?  This was real for her, to her, right now.  As far as she knew, the chair she sat in, the stone walls around her, the dogs begging her for pets, the people she could hear going about their business outside… it was all real.  And it was her job to keep them all as safe as possible. Questions of reality were moot. Even if this was a dream, she could never just sit back and watch someone get eviscerated by a Terror demon.  She couldn’t just watch Corypheus torture and slaughter his way through the populace.

Under other circumstances, she might have treated this like a giant game, some high-tech immersive adventure.  She would enjoy it, mess around, say things she really wanted to say, rather than the things she had to say. But she wasn’t doing all of this for herself.

Lyra got to her feet and clicked her tongue at the mabari, who got up and followed her out of the room.  It had been weeks since she’d had time to check in with her people, and now that she had a day off, that was exactly what she was going to do.


	67. Gateway

**Prompt: Gateway**

**Word count: 1,122**

* * *

 

The Iron Bull had never anticipated that he would become Tal-vashoth, though in retrospect all the warning signs had been there.  He’d let his cover become who he actually was. He’d left behind Hissrad and became the Iron Bull. He’d let his merc band become his reason, rather than his means to an end.

He wasn’t upset that they were still alive.  He couldn’t be. But he was afraid. He knew what frequently happened to Tal-vashoth.  Madness. Regression into mindless, violent animals. He feared that end more than anything else.

And yet, he’d chosen it.

He said  _ chosen _ , because though Lyra had basically given him an order, at that moment he’d been stretched between two opposing orders from his two opposing loyalties.  One could argue that she didn’t have the authority to order him, a ben-hassrath of the Qun, to do anything. But her words had been the ones he’d listened to, because he’d wanted to.

And now he had to live with the consequences.  Even if they included madness.

Bull’s muscles bunched and tensed all down his arms, veins bulging.

“Easy, Chief,” said Krem, appearing beside his elbow and casting a wary eye down his wired body.  “You alright?”

Bull grunted.  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Krem said, sounding and looking extremely dubious.  “I heard you pitched two Qunari assassins off the gatehouse.”

“Eh,” Bull said.

“They’re still scraping the remains from the gateway path.”

“They were amateurs,” Bull said dismissively.

“Doesn’t mean it can’t bother you.  You know, that your people are trying to kill you.”

“Not my people anymore, Krem-puff.”  He grabbed a tankard—used, but clean enough—and poured out a healthy draught of maraas-lok from his private stash.  Krem tapped his fingers against the table, watching with narrowed eyes.

“No, I guess not,” he said slowly.  “That’d be us.”

It was Bull’s turn to side-eye his companion.  Krem looked back with a challenging expression.  “We all know you could have pressed the attack, let us get surrounded.  We also know that you didn’t have to listen to the Inquisitor. You picked us, Chief.  That means you get us.”

There wasn’t anything Bull could say to that.  He couldn’t argue, because Krem was right, and he couldn’t deny his people.  He had picked them; he could hardly walk away from them now. But…

“You know how this can end,” he told his second.  “What happens to Tal-vashoth.”

“You’re not going to go insane,” Krem said, exasperation dripping from every word as he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and you know this?” Bull grunted.

“For being all spy-smart, you are an idiot,” Krem said flatly, and looked particularly unimpressed at the eyebrow Bull lifted in response.  “You’re slouching around here moping, but you’re not asking yourself the important questions.”

“I expect you’re going to tell me these questions I should be asking?”

“What’s different now?” Krem asked, eyes intent on him.  Bull gave him a Look.

“What’s different is that now I’m Tal-Vashoth.”

Krem gave a Tevene shrug.  “So you don’t write reports to your Viddasala anymore.  Beside that, what’s changed?”

‘ _ What’s changed’ _ ,  _ he asks…  _ Bull scowled.  “Everything has changed.  I’ve been excommunicated from the Qun!”

Krem waved dismissively at that answer.  “Nah, Chief,  _ what’s changed _ ?”

Bull opened his mouth.  Paused. Closed his mouth.  When Krem gave an arch look, Bull finally said: “The day-to-day isn’t different.  I’m still leading the Chargers, still working for the Inquisition. But that isn’t it, and you know it.  The purpose is gone, all meaning behind my actions is gone. I have no anchor, no direction.”

His second was shaking his head, mouth pressed into a thin line.  Bull waited. Finally Krem asked bluntly: “Why is the Inquisition’s goal not enough?”

“I—” Bull started.  “It’s...different. Bah!  You’re not going to understand, you aren’t of the Qun.”

“You could explain.”

“No, I couldn’t, since  _ I’m  _ not of the Qun anymore, either.”

They sat in silence, and Bull knew that Krem was stewing in as much frustration as he himself was, if for a different reason.  But he couldn’t seem to help himself, obstinately resisting the other man’s attempts at reassurance. Finally, Krem reached over and stole Bull’s drink, slamming back the last mouthful of maraas-lok and cracking the tankard to the table as he stood.

“If you aren’t going to listen, then you aren’t going to listen,” he said, turning to leave.

“What do you want me to do, Krem?” Bull growled.  “The one thing that has defined my entire life, that gave me strength and purpose, is gone now.  What am I supposed to do?”

Krem paused, looking back over his shoulder.  “I guess you’ll just have to do what the rest of us do.  Find the strength within yourself.”

He walked off before Bull could even start to think of a response.  Bull grumbled in irritation, half because he’d missed the chance at the last word, and half because he couldn’t really think of a good response.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Krem, or thought he was wrong.  It was, in fact, the opposite. The truth was that Bull had been struggling with himself for years.  He had even gone to the re-educators once, but whatever they had done to him hadn’t stuck, apparently.  

He’d been out in the world, away from Seheron, too long.  He’d seen all the different ways of living, met people he admired who seemed to live just fine without the Qun.  And he’d begun to wonder about the Qun and how necessary it really was to bring all of Thedas under its rule...

There were people who would benefit from the structure and surety of the Qun, naturally.  But there were others who had already found structure and surety in their lives, whatever the source.  Did those people need to be brought under the Qun if they already knew their place and their purpose? Was the Qun about control or philosophy?  And if these people already had the ability to self-govern, was it cowardice to submit to the Qun? Bull was aware, actually, that he had the strength to live as a Tal-Vashoth without losing his self, but he had lived for years under the Qun, letting others make decisions for him.  Letting himself release all sense of responsibility, since he wasn’t the one making the decisions, he was only following what the Qun demanded. Had he just been hiding behind his orders? Had he just been letting the Viddasala and the Triumverate manipulate him like some mindless animal, point him at their enemies and let him go?

Bull argued with Krem because he did not want to think about those questions.  He already had the strength within himself to live without the Qun. That was the problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I hate March; every year I have a required meeting with my committee that inevitably makes me feel like I should just give up and change career paths, or maybe just crawl into a hole and die. Point is, I don't generally have time to write during the latter half of the month, which is why I missed last week. I also used up my buffer chapters, so new ones may be late for a little while, since I'm going to have to write them up fresh each week. Just hang with me, guys, I'll get through this.


	68. Colors

**Prompt: Colors**

**Word count: 1,458**

* * *

 

Piper woke beside Cullen, her body pressed right up against his for the warmth he offered, and smiled lazily before opening her eyes.  He was still asleep, face half mashed into a pillow, his expression relaxed in a way it never was when he was awake.

Affection warmed her, and she couldn’t help but reach out to stroke the wild tumble of his hair.  Mussed from sleep (and, if she was honest, their activities before sleep), it had returned to its natural curl, making him look younger than he was.  At her touch, he stirred, inhaling deeply as his body prepared to wake. Piper slipped her fingers deeper in to his wheaten curls, drawing her nails gently across his scalp.  He groaned, the muscles of his shoulders and back flexing under his Alamarri-pale skin.

“That feels good,” he mumbled, not opening his eyes.  Piper’s smile widened and she ducked in to kiss the edge of his ear.

“Good morning,” she whispered.  His lips quirked, his smile crooked from the scar that ran through one side, and his eyes cracked open.  Cullen rolled over onto his back, sliding an arm around her as he did so, to hold her to him. She draped herself easily over his bare chest, basking in the warm intimacy of skin-on-skin contact.

“Good morning,” he replied, voice low and husky from sleep.  His pupils were fat in the dim room, the irises just a narrow band of ochre, and she could see the tiny reflection of herself in them as he gazed at her.  His expression was soft and warm, and she scooted close to press a kiss against his lips. He kissed her back, lazily and drugging. They lingered over each other a few long moments.

Feeling warm and heavy, Piper sighed and tucked her face into his neck.  “I love you.”

She felt his arms tighten around her, his breath suddenly uneven.  It hit him powerfully, every time she said it, and his reaction always made her feel humbled and amazed in turn.  Cullen was a man with little use for prevarication; he made no secret of what he thought or felt about any topic. Even when he tried, his lies were paper-thin, his poker-face non-existent.  Piper knew exactly how he felt about her and about her love for him.

The strength of the love he felt for her in return was intoxicating.  In Cullen’s arms, she shivered a little.

“Are you cold?” he rasped into her ear, causing more shivers and goosebumps to rise all across her body.  He could feel her response, and chuckled.

“Mean,” she whispered a little breathlessly, squirming.

“Mean?  How so?”

“There’s a meeting in the War Room you have to get to; we don’t have time for a roll in the hay,” she said, squirming a little more as his hands roamed over her.

“Are you sure?” Cullen asked, and the tone of his voice could really only be described as a purr, however cliched it sounded in Piper’s mind.  She stuttered a little, as he kissed along her jaw and down her throat. His cheeks were prickly with scruff, and she wondered if she’d be red with beard-burn by the time she escaped his bed.

“I’m sure!” she squeaked.  “Since I just heard the watch change call dawn hour!”

“What?” Cullen’s head popped up and he looked toward the narrow arrow-slit window on the other side of the room.  Watery morning light trickled through, weak and butter-yellow. “I’m late!”

He bounced off the bed, scrambling for his clothes as Piper laughed at him from the abandoned sheets.  He yanked on his trousers, stamped his feet into his boots, and snatched up his shirt from the floor. Swooping down to kiss her one more time, firmly, he made for the trapdoor down into his office.

“I will see you for lunch,” he said, briefly muffled as he pulled the shirt over his head.

“Yes,” Piper agreed. “Have a good day, Cullen.”

He returned the sentiment and gave her one last loving glance, half a smile on his beloved face, before descending the ladder.  Piper sighed, stretching luxuriously on the bed. The sheets were already losing the warmth from his body, and lazing about didn’t seem very tempting anymore.

She sighed, sitting up and casting about the floor by the bed for her clothes.  Some muffled clattering and rustling filtered up from the office below as Cullen hastily donned his armor, and then there was the squeak of door hinges as he left.  Piper pulled on her underwear— _ they call them ‘smallclothes’ here, better start using their lingo if you’re staying _ —and stood.  There was a small wardrobe in the corner, which contained a couple of her outfits, placed there after it became obvious that having a change of clothes in each of their bedrooms would be helpful.  There was a drawer of shirts and trousers in her room, along with a new armor stand, for when Cullen stayed with her there.

The hole in Cullen’s roof might have been warded to keep out snow and wind, but it didn’t do anything about the cold.  Piper got dressed as quickly as she could, then washed her face and scrubbed her teeth, and climbed down the ladder into Cullen’s office.  She’d gotten a lot better at navigating the climb with her leg, practice making perfect. She could get up or down as quickly as anyone now.

It was a little warmer in the office, but not by much.  Piper knelt by the brazier in the corner and fussed with the coals, tinder, and flint a long moment.  She wished, for the nth time, that her bag of camping tools hadn’t been buried in Haven. She would have liked to use a firestarter that had a little more success than ye olde flint.  Eventually, though, she got it lit, and pretty quickly heat was building in the room. Piper held her hands up to the brazier for a little while, her fingers pretty chilled from the unheated wash water she’d used for her morning ablutions.

Once she was warmed enough, she slipped into Cullen’s chair and pulled a stack of parchment toward her.  She’d become something of a civilian aide-de-camp to Cullen once everyone had realized ‘sing about the Inquisition’ wasn’t exactly a full-time job.  If she didn’t want to completely ruin her voice or hands, she couldn’t perform all day every day, and there wasn’t much else to do. Nobody had really thought about what else she could do; it hadn’t really been deliberate or ill-intentioned, but they had all somewhat dismissed her after her leg was injured.  The workshops she’d given the soldiers on first aid and wilderness survival were taken up by others who were qualified to give them—she and Lyra had done a good job with the early groups and some of the officers now knew just about as much as they did. The army didn’t need Piper anymore.

She couldn’t really be angry.  She’d mostly dismissed herself, as well.  She’d taken her position as resident minstrel and settled into it, content at the time.  But as time passed she’d gotten more and more bored. Exercising and playing with Poe, Finn, and Rey could only take up so much of the day.  The dogs themselves were getting weary and bored, as well.

Still, it wasn’t until recently that she realized she could do more.  She’d been waiting on Cullen to come to bed—it had taken an absurdly short amount of time to go from being unused to his bulk and heat in bed to needing it to be able to fall asleep—and he had been stressed and pulled taut with a large backlog of paperwork.

“Can’t I help you with something?” she’d asked, upset and worried.  He’d been particularly pale that week, she remembered, withdrawals hitting him hard.  He’d been reluctant at first, of course, but eventually he’d capitulated. And now Piper spent a few hours each day taking care of the little minutiae that Cullen didn’t have time for in his position of Commander and Advisor.

It was a lot of lists and signing off on requisitions.  Paperwork. Not Piper’s most favorite thing, but that was fine.  It helped the Inquisition, however undistinguished it sounded. Maybe she wasn’t swinging a sword, but she was the one making sure all of their camps and forts were supplied—soldiers and food and horses and uniforms and potions and healers, and, and, and.

People complained about paperwork, because it  _ was  _ tedious and uninteresting to do, but it was also necessary.  How else could they coordinate between dozens of different detachments across several countries?

“The pen is mightier than the sword,” Piper muttered, dipping hers in an inkwell.  “ _ En garde _ , paperwork!”


	69. Friendship*

**Prompt: Friendship***

**Word count: 1,019**

* * *

 

Varric choked down a mouthful of ale and forced himself to stay seated, as grim as if he were facing down torture, though the music filling the Rest could hardly be described as such.  Piper was a tremendously talented musician, her hands clever on the harp, and her sister had a more than passable voice and a perfect sense of rhythm with the hand drum.

_“Do not stand at my grave and weep,_

_I am not there, I do not sleep._

_When you awaken in the morning’s hush,_

_I am the swift uplifting rush._

 

_“I am the thousand winds that blow,_

_I am the diamond glint on snow,_

_I am the sunlight on ripened grain,_

_I am the gentle autumn rain.”_

No, it wasn’t the musicality that was grating on Varric.  It was the subject matter. No, it perhaps wasn’t even that; the song wasn’t a lament, it wasn’t dark and grim.  The words were supposed to give hope, ease sorrow. Objectively, it was a beautiful song. Subjectively, Varric could barely stand it, and that had entirely everything to do with who was singing it.  He gritted his teeth and tried very hard to keep his discomfort and upset show in his expression, as the refrain repeated. Lyra’s voice rose and fell, pitch perfect and utterly horrible.

_“Do not stand at my grave and weep,_

_I am not there, I do not sleep_

_When you awaken in the morning’s hush,_

_I am the swift uplifting rush._

 

_“I am the thousand winds that blow,_

_I am the diamond glint on snow,_

_I am the sunlight on ripened grain,_

_I am the gentle autumn rain.”_

Varric had always been charismatic.  It was a talent that he’d cultivated and made good use of throughout his life.  He’d never had it fail quite as completely as it had with the Seeker. Well, it worked _briefly_ , at the beginning, when she’d had him dragged before her and demanded answers for what had happened in Kirkwall.  He’d spun the story, worked as much charm as he could into the telling, and it had started to work. At the very least, he’d persuaded her that what had happened wasn’t Hawke’s fault.

But then she’d wanted to _find_ Hawke.  To put Hawke at the head of their Inquisition.

Varric was an author, a _story-teller_.  He knew well enough that being the hero of a story meant hardship, meant sacrifice.  And Hawke had already sacrificed everything she had, except for herself. And Varric would be damned if he was part of making her lose that, too.

So he lied.

The Seeker had been _furious_ when she found out.

Well, he hadn’t kept hold of his temper either.

Words had been exchanged.  Shouty, angry words. The Seeker had been out for blood and Varric had been perfectly fine with snapping back.  It hadn’t mattered, at the time, that there had been collateral damage. They had argued about the leader of the Inquisition, how Cassandra had been unable to find either of the women she had desired for the position, in part because of Varric.  Cassandra shouted about how the Inquisition, the _world_ , had needed Hawke.  If anyone had been able to save Divine Justinia, it would have been her.  Varric shouted about how the Inquisition would have killed Hawke, how he kept her secret to protect her.

_And all the while, the Inquisitor had stood there, hearing them argue over who would have been a better leader, how dangerous the job was, how Varric would never have wanted his friend forced into the role._

She hadn’t protested, at the time.  She’d just tried to stop them from fighting.  Varric had stomped off, too angry to think about how the fight would have affected her.  Now that sufficient time had passed, Varric had enough distance that memories of the argument didn’t trip him immediately into jaw clenching, blood heating anger and frustration.  Those feelings were still there, but muted. And they were easily overshadowed by the shame that came as he thought about what he’d said and what the Seeker’d said. Shame and a little pity.

As if the role of Inquisitor, bearing the Anchor, wasn’t hard enough.  She didn’t need to know that Cassandra, the one who’d pushed her to become Inquisitor, thought her a last-ditch effort.  The only one available after all her _preferred_ choices fell through.  She didn’t need to know that Varric was so worried about how this would all end that he made sure his friends stayed far away from it.  Nobody had tried to protect _her_ from it.

They were supposed to support her.  This didn’t feel like support. Varric felt more than a prickle of guilt every time he looked at her, now.  Particularly when he saw her with her sister and it was very obvious that there were two very different Lyras.  One was the stern, confident Inquisitor that presided over the main hall during Judgments and went out into the field with her team.  The other was a young woman who loved her sister, music, and dancing; the one who teased and smiled and laughed. When he saw the latter Lyra, he remembered just how young she was, and wished they’d left her alone.  That she hadn’t been forced into this position, forced along a path he was _sure_ would kill her, in the end.

It already almost had.  Nobody had forgotten Haven.

She couldn’t even fight!  They had no place sending her out.  They were going to get her killed.

Varric might not have protected her before—and certainly he might not even have had the chance; she’d been embroiled in all this before he’d known her—but he was going to do so now.

_“Gentle birds in circling flight,_

_I am the soft star that shines at night._

_O do not stand at my grave and cry,_

_I am not there, I did not die.”_

She had a nice voice, and she and her sister fit together perfectly, musically.  There was nothing wrong with their performance, but Varric never wanted to hear Lyra sing about death again.  Especially not her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life is being terrible. Sorry about the disruption in updating, but things'll be wonky for a while yet. Thanks for your patience.
> 
> The song is "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep". The lyrics were a poem that became very popular for funerals and was turned into song a few times. I'm partial to the version by LEAH-- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_1DpStgzhY


	70. Heart Song

**Prompt: Heart Song**

**Word count: 1,317**

* * *

 

The water clung to Cullen’s curls, weighing them down and making them darker and straighter.  When he looked into his polished copper mirror, preparing to shave, he was startled by how much he looked like his father, and even more startled that he  _ remembered  _ what his father had looked like.  Cullen had left his family at age thirteen, and by now had spent more time away from them than he had with them.  Because of that, and because of lyrium’s documented effects on memory, he’d thought his parents’ faces lost to him.  

He’d never really looked too much like them, he’d thought, though he’d had his mother’s hair and eyes.  But now he was around the same age his father had been when he’d last seen them, and Piper’s crusade to get him to take better care of himself had returned color and fullness to his gaunt face, so when he looked into his reflection in the copper, his father’s face now stared back.  He had grown into the resemblance, apparently, helped along by the water changing the appearance of this hair.

He stared at the reflection, shocked, cataloging the similarities and differences.  Though he was doing better, his withdrawals still had his cheekbones more prominent than they should have been, and his pallor more waxen.  His face was thinner than he remembered his father’s, and lacked the ruddiness Tallmadge Rutherford had had, but the resemblance was unmistakable.  He had his father’s jawline and nose, and the shape of his eyes was his father’s though the color was his mother’s.

He wondered how Mia would react to seeing him now, then caught the thought and shoved it to the back of his mind.

Briskly, Cullen went about lathering soap and applying it to his face, then scraping it—and his burgeoning beard—off with quick, practised motions.  It was a good day, today, and his hands didn’t shake at all.

Once he was done, and his shaving kit cleaned and packed away, he gathered his things and left the bath ‘house’ (less a house and more a series of chambers in Skyhold’s lower levels) to return to his office.  Piper was there, blinking and yawning at a sheaf of papers at his desk. She looked up as he entered and smiled.

“Oh, hey,” she said, and started gathering up the papers.  Cullen caught a glimpse of the lines of her peoples’ style of music notation; she must have been composing.  “I’ll get this out of your way.”

He dropped his things onto the corner of the desk, protesting: “I don’t mind sharing the desk; it is large enough.”

“Oooh, careful there.  Give me an inch and I’ll take a mile,” she laughed.  Her papers in a neat pile, she stood from the chair and went to Cullen, looping her arms around his neck loosely and going on her tiptoes for a kiss.  The kiss was soft and lingering, and he closed his eyes to bask in the comfort of loving and being loved in return.

They broke apart after a long moment, and Cullen gathered up his bath things again.  “Truly, stay. We can share the desk.”

“You don’t have any meetings today?” she asked as he climbed upstairs.

“Not until the afternoon,” he called down, “but you’re usually in the Rest then, anyway.”

He slid down the ladder, landing back in his office with a thump of boots on stone.  His armor was on the stand in the corner, so he went over to it to gear up for the day.  Piper was dragging a stool over to the desk so they would both have somewhere to sit.

“Okay, then,” she responded presently.  “Will you have time to have lunch with me?”

Cullen mentally reviewed his schedule for the day.  He was overseeing training for Third Company later that morning, but he should have time for a late ‘lunch’.  He told Piper so, and was rewarded with another smile.

One of the things that had first dazzled Cullen in regard to Piper was the bright smiles she had bestowed upon him; he remembered thinking in those early days how rarely anyone smile so unreservedly at him.  It struck him, still, every time she smiled at him with such genuine warmth. The only people who looked at him with such fond regard had been his family.

Thinking about them brought all his thoughts from the morning rushing back to the forefront of his mind.

They would love Piper.  Rosalie would love her singing.  Branson would love her courage, disproportional to her size.  And Mia would love her simply for saving Cullen, if she didn’t love her for her kindness and cleverness.

For the first time in a long time, Cullen actually seriously considered reaching out to his family.  Sure, he’d sometimes scrounge up a sentence or two in response to Mia’s nagging letters, but he never initiated, never really engaged.  But he wanted to share Piper, wanted to show her off, in a way.

_ Look at this woman.  Have you ever seen anything so wonderful?  She is a Daughter of Andraste, and I will never deserve her, but she chose me anyway. _

His mother always said the best gifts are shared, because the more hearts that sing in joy, the louder the song is for everyone.  And Piper  _ is _ a gift.

“Hey,” the woman herself said, touching his arm lightly where his vambrace ended.  “You okay? You went away a moment.”

“I am fine,” he assured her, and gently cupped her cheek in his hand.  His heart did something complicated in the cage of his ribs as she leaned into the touch.  “Maker’s breath, but I am a lucky man.”

Mischief touched her expression.  “Who would have thought the stern Commander who regularly makes recruits cry would be such a romantic sap.”

He rolled his eyes even as he accepted her into his arms.  “I do not make recruits cry.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw some tears after their extended march in full kit,” she said with amusement, and kissed him.  She was so free with her affection, and yet even in the midst of a kiss Cullen greedily yearned for more.

He really should tell his family about her.

She slipped out of his embrace to plop herself down onto the stool she’d dragged to his desk.  Seated, she flashed a pert look up at him. “To work?”

“I do not sound like that,” he protested calmly in the face of her ridiculously deepened voice and mangled Fereldan accent.  And when she just laughed in response, added: “You’re particularly playful today.”

“I’m happy,” she explained.  Cullen fought not to blush at the obvious implication that  _ he  _ made her happy.  He cleared his throat awkwardly, busying himself with taking his own seat and pulling out his pen and ink and paper.  He heard Piper giggle to herself, likely at his complete failure at suppressing the red flush burning his ears, but mercifully she didn’t tease him further.  He relaxed quickly into the quiet industrious comfort of working in close quarters with another person.

Even as he spread out field reports from their bases across Thedas, Cullen surreptitiously put pen to paper:

_ Dear Mia… _

They worked for some time in near silence, the only sounds shuffling paper, scratching pens, and Piper’s soft humming.  Cullen was stretching a cramp out of his hand out when there was a low rumbling, almost like thunder, that grew louder and louder, echoing off the mountains and shaking Skyhold in its very foundation.

He was out of his chair as soon as it became apparent that the sound  _ wasn’t  _ thunder.  He was outside on the ramparts once the tremors hit, staring in shock and horror at the sky.  He barely heard Piper stumble out after him as quickly as she could, making it to his shoulder and gasping.  “Oh my god.”

The Breach had reopened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This year has sucked, guys.


	71. Future

**Prompt: Future**

**Word count: 1,430**

* * *

 

When the fledgling Inquisition fled Haven, they didn’t get to use roads.  They snuck out from under the hammer of Corypheus’s army, down half-forgotten, overgrown, and snow-buried footpaths.  The pilgrimage paths took them into the mountains’ forest, through which the first pilgrims to Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes journeyed, before the stone and packed-dirt roads had been established.  They walked those paths out of necessity, because the aforementioned roads were half a mountain away, and possibly thick with enemies besides.

Once they had settled Skyhold, they reconnected with those roads, clearing them of bandits and treefall and whatever remnants of Venatori or Red Templars lingered after Corypheus withdrew from Haven.  It would hardly have been convenient to have to trek cross country through the Frostbacks to get anywhere, after all. The roads, once secured, made travel much faster and easier.

So, when the Breach tore open again and news came that Corypheus had returned to Haven, presumably in a last-ditch attempt to achieve his madman’s goal of world domination, it didn’t take the Inquisition that long to respond.

The Chargers led the… well, the charge (Krem winced a little, imagining the Chief’s reaction to the wordplay).  They, and the forward force of Inquisition troops they brought with them, cleared the way for the Inquisitor’s party to advance straight toward Corypheus.  Nobody wanted the Blighted magister to finish whatever scheme he was enacting that involved opening the Breach again, so timing was critical. They needed a force on Corypheus as quickly as they could.

Krem tried not to think about how that force had to include the Inquisitor.  Lyra. Who still only knew the basics of knife fighting. She was a deft hand at throwing blades, he had to admit, but she was hardly the calibre of fighter that could survive open combat with an ancient Darkspawn magister.

Maker, could contact with him blight people, like normal Darkspawn?

Krem gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus again on the task at hand.  His sword cleaved into a Red Templar with a rather disgusting sound, and almost got stuck in the crystal spars jutting from its misshapen shoulder, but Krem wrenched it out with a grunt before turning to his next opponent.  Around him, the other Chargers fought too, keeping back enraged Venatori mages and hulking crystal-corrupted templars.

Corypheus’s army had been mostly shattered in the Arbor Wilds, but what had attacked the elvhen ruin there hadn’t been the entirety of the magister’s forces.  There had been outposts all across Thedas, pursuing other goals. Presumably, those were pulled from their missions to launch this attack, along with the few survivors of the Wilds.

The Inquisition outnumbered them, easily.  Perhaps two or three to one. The odds were good enough that if they’d only been facing Corypheus’s army, Krem would have expected a comparatively easy victory.  But it wasn’t just Corypheus’s army they were facing. Corypheus wasn’t much engaged in the fighting, except to blast soldiers out of his way as he made his way up the slope to the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  But the dragon... 

Casualties were already high, and Krem worried about what the tallies would be when everything was over.  The dragon could take out a dozen soldiers with one swoop, tearing through them like a battering ram with extended claws.  Some of their archers and mages were trying to target it whenever it stooped, its attack bringing it into range of volleys of arrows that just ricocheted off its scales and lyrium crystal outgrowths, or spells that washed over it with little effect.  They couldn’t even injure it, let alone kill it.

Rocky and Skinner had been taken out by it.  Their screams still rang in Krem’s ears; he would have nightmares about this fight, if he survived it.

He flinched at a draconic screech from above, crouching low and hurriedly scanning the sky to locate the threat while still trying to keep an eye on the enemies on the ground around him.  But what he saw wasn’t the open maw of a dragon rushing toward him. Instead, there was a thrashing mass of wings and scales as two screeching dragons grappled with each other in mid-air.

“The Inquisitor!” someone shouted over the cacophony of battle.  Krem spared a glance, and there she was. All done up in armor, hair pulled back severely and a stony expression on her face, she didn’t look much like the woman who sometimes slept curled around him.

Krem saluted her as she passed, her party heading up the slope toward the faintly-glowing ruins where Corypheus waited.  She saw him, and nodded acknowledgement of his gesture in a rather stern and noble manner. If he didn’t know her like he did, he might have believed the facade.  As it was, he could see the fear hidden behind her eyes.

She knew, as well as he did, just how unprepared she was for this fight.  Krem took a breath, tore his eyes away from her to cast a glance over her companions.  Solas, a look of grim calculation on his sharp face; Dorian, looking more serious and focused than he’d ever been; and the Chief, who met Krem’s gaze knowingly and gave a little nod.  He would watch her back.

With a force of will born from necessity, Krem put his worry over the Inquisitor to the back of his mind, focusing once more on the fight.  He had practice in doing that sort of thing; in a battle you couldn’t afford to be distracted or else  _ you  _ will be the one people grieve for.

The fight was back to more manageable odds, with Corypheus’s Blight dragon having been taken out of the equation by… the Inquisitor’s dragon?  Krem wasn’t sure how that worked out, but it had gone straight for its Blighted counterpart, ignoring all the Inquisition soldiers in its path.  Nobody was bothering to shoot at the brawling beasts, too busy dealing with the more immediate threats on the ground to waste arrows or energy on something futile.

Krem winced as a Venatori fire spell drew a line of agony across his thigh; the leg nearly buckled as muscles spasmed in reaction to the pain.  He stumbled to the side, and was braced up by Dalish, who screamed curses in elvish at the enemy mage. To punctuate her words, she conjured a rock spear and launched it at the doomed bastard.  He went down with a scream and didn’t get back up.

“Thanks,” Krem said through gritted teeth.

“ _ Fen’Harel ver na _ !” she spat at the corpse, hauling Krem backwards behind the line of fighting.  “STITCHES!”

The Chargers’ chirurgeon appeared beside them, attention on Krem’s leg.  It looked bad, he had to admit to himself, deep and ugly. The fire spell both cut and burned, leaving his thigh a sticky mess of blood, soot, and burned flesh.  It looked like something you’d stake over a campfire. Krem took slow deep breaths through his mouth, trying not to smell it, and focused his attention on the fighting surrounding them so that he wouldn’t have to watch Stitches deal with the wound.

He felt it, though, despite the first-aid health potion Stitches poured down his throat.  That little bit of elfroot numbing and beginning to heal wasn’t even close to enough to mask the scrape and lightning-sharp pain of the removal of the charred flesh, the cold sting of the wound being cleansed, and the prick and pull of sutures.  Krem admitted that he went away, for a while, into the ringing silence of the depths of his mind. Away from his body. It was only a moment or two, and then Dalish was helping Stitches lever him to his feet.

“Archers along the northwest slope need support,” he mumbled, feeling like he’d gone through a pint or two of ale, despite the fact that the Chargers never entered battle inebriated.  That would be the blood-loss and pain, then. He was out of the fight.

“Not your problem anymore, love,” Dalish grunted.  Krem’s head lolled on a rubbery neck.

“Th’Inquis’t’r?” he slurred.

“Fighting.”

“Don’wanna lose ‘er.”

Dalish’s face and voice softened.  “Me neither. C’mon, laddiebuck, let’s get you to the back.  Nothing we can do here, now.”

As Dalish all but carried him down the mountain toward the healing tents that had been pitched near the road, Krem tried to crane his head back toward the mount were Corypheus had been—where the Inquisitor was undoubtedly confronting him—but he couldn’t see anything.  He wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not.


	72. Answers

**Prompt: Answers**

**Word count: 1,746**

* * *

 

When Lyra played Inquisition—all six playthroughs, because she had no chill (and, apparently, no life)—Corypheus had been easy to defeat.  She’d gone through the games meticulously, leveling up characters and crafting masterworks so that her party was a brutally efficient machine.  Resplendent in the best armor (carefully tinted so it also  _ looked  _ as good as its stats), edged honed sharp and buffs buffed, they’d always smashed their way through the last few missions of the game.

_ This _ , though?  This was not a game.  She was not her canon Inquisitor (a mage Qunari, because  _ fuck the Chantry _ ).  She couldn’t fight, couldn’t throw a fireball.  She had to rely on her party in a way she’d never had to do when it was just a controller in her hand.  Now, with  _ the Anchor  _ in her hand and a Darkspawnified ancient magister snarling at her, she was scared out of her damn mind.  All the worries that had plagued her through this entire misbegotten adventure were thrust straight to the forefront.  This was supposed to be the final battle. What if she didn’t manage to kill Corypheus? What if  _ he  _ killed  _ her _ ?   _ What if she wasn’t good enough and she damned the entire world to oblivion? _

It took a lot of effort to keep the panic attack back, but she managed through sheer necessity; if she checked out here, now, she’d die.  And then everything  _ would _ be ruined.

Corypheus did his usual thing.  A lot of dramatic monologuing. He is all powerful, he is a god, kneel before him, blah blah.  He had some amazing abilities, frightening powers, but he also acted like very clichéd villain Lyra’d ever seen.  It really just made her want to shut him up, but she didn’t have the capability of doing so. Not in the way she wanted.

Dorian and Solas traded off casting Barrier over the party, spamming fire and ice spells in the interim.  Bull was cheerfully smashing anything that looked at them sideways with his gigantic battle-axe. And she was lobbing grenades at Corypheus’s face, in between parceling out healing or lyrium potions to her boys.  They chipped away at Corypheus steadily, wearing him down. Darkspawn or no, he still had to abide by the rules of the world. Injury had to heal, mana had to regenerate.

Still.  It wasn’t easy.  He hit back, and they could get worn down as well.  They were looking pretty bedraggled. Dorian was nearly blind in one eye from the curtain of blood covering half his face from a cut across his forehead.  Solas limped heavily on his left leg. Bull… well, Bull was bleeding from at least a dozen cuts, but he seemed to barely notice them.

Breathing hard, Lyra palmed a healing potion—they were running low, god damn it—and sprinted for Dorian.  Her muscles were aching; in order to minimize the target they presented, they were all in constant motion, ducking and dodging.  Hit-and-run tactics, peppering Corypheus without letting him draw a bead on them. Or at least, that was the idea. Corypheus was adapting quickly to it, and was hitting them with more frequency as the fight wore on.  But they  _ were  _ landing more hits than he was… Hopefully that’d count for something.

“Cover!” she shouted to Solas and Bull, as she reached Dorian and dragged him back a short distance.  The other two began harrying Corypheus even more, trying to give her and Dorian a brief respite from attack as she tended to his head.

She wasn’t able to do more than wipe the blood away and pour a little potion over the cut, enough that it stopped bleeding, though it didn’t quite close over.  Dorian gave her hand a squeeze, then plunged back into the fray. Lyra took two deep breaths, and moved. 

She had her own injuries, their burn muted by adrenaline and sparing application of potions.  She hoped this would end soon, since she could tell they were all starting to slow a little. But the Blight Dragon had been killed, the fragment of himself that Corypheus had hidden within it returning to him, infuriating the Darkspawn magister.  He’d gone off on some tirade that Lyra had hardly listened to. He was shouting even more vehemently, now, insulting them, proclaiming how much more powerful he was. Lyra was certain the raving meant that he was getting tired, that they were getting near the end of this fight.  His sort always seemed to insist they were immortal and untouchable with more determination the closer they got to death, as if they could simply will it to be the truth.

“I will not yet fall!” Corypheus shouted in his gravelly voice.  Solas hit him with a massive firestorm of a spell, and Lyra could hear the red lyrium that grew from him screaming and cracking from the heat.  Corypheus gave a furious yell. Through the flames, she saw him sweep his ill-proportioned arms outward.

An explosion followed the gesture, the shockwave blasting her party backwards off their feet.

“No!” Corypheus growled.  “Not like this. I have walked the halls of the Golden City!  I have crossed the ages!”

Gasping, Lyra rolled onto her stomach, lifting her spinning head.  He had the Orb in his hands, malevolent red energy crackling over its surface.   _ Nownownownow! _

She struggled to her feet, grimacing in pain as the Anchor began spitting green energy in response.  Corypheus’s back was turned to her as he struggled with the power of the Orb.

“Dumat!  Ancient Ones, I beseech you!  If you exist—if you ever truly existed—aid me now!”

Lyra remembered how this went.  She held out her hand, focusing hard on the Orb.  Blood trickled from her nose, and green and red lightning leapt around the two of them like they were Tesla coils.  A streak of motion and a blaze of green light, and the Orb thudded into her hand. Corypheus let out a cry, falling to his knees.

She almost wanted to do the same, the power of the Orb blazing through her, setting her nerves alight.  But she knew what she had to do. With a phenomenal force of will, she lifted the Orb toward the Breach, and focused once more.  She screamed with the effort, a pillar of light erupting from her and the Orb, spearing into the swirling green maelstrom…

A thunderous crack of misplaced air, and it closed.  The power cut off so suddenly, it felt as if her heart had stopped and she’d gone deaf all at once.  The Orb dropped from her limp hand, and Lyra listed slightly, gasping for air.

_ Get up.   _ She gritted her teeth.   _ Get up, you’re not done yet. _

A staggering step forward, and another… She was standing before the crumpled and diminished Corypheus.  She tried to breathe evenly, stand straight. This was the creature that had caused so much death. All those mages, the templars, the Wardens, not to mention the poor innocent civilians caught in the crossfire.  And finally.  _ Finally.  _  He was going to get his just reward.

“You,” she said, cold and as sharp as a blade.  “You wanted into the Fade? I’ll  _ send you to the Fade _ .”

The Anchor responded easily to her will, enforced as it was by her righteous fury.  A Rift swallowed Corypheus's right arm. Then one took his legs, up to the hip. Then one swallowed his head, another his torso, then at last his right arm.  And there was nothing left.

Lyra collapsed completely onto the ground, ears ringing and vision going dim.  She vaguely recalled that, in the game, this was when the giant boulders floating in the air came crashing down and she should probably get up and get her team to safety, but… her fading consciousness wasn’t cooperating.

Everything went away for a moment or two.

She came back with the Well’s voices a whispering susurration in the back of her mind, and Solas kneeling nearby, the cracked pieces of the Orb cradled in his hands.  His face was blank as he stared down at them, like the sight couldn’t compute.

Lyra’s thoughts struggled through a morass of exhaustion and pain, and eventually she stirred, limbs jerking.  She pushed herself up with a hiss and a groan. “Solas?”

“The Orb,” the elf murmured.  Lyra paused, eyes flicking over the ground, checking the locations of her other party members.  Dorian and Bull were both fine, sitting up groggily further down the slope.

“I’m… sorry.  I know it was important to you.”

Solas laid the broken pieces down.  “It was not supposed to happen this way.”

_ Then you probably shouldn’t have given it to Corypheus _ .  Lyra bit her tongue; it would be counter-productive to antagonize him, and she still wasn’t entirely certain he wouldn’t kill her if he knew she was aware of who he was and what he’d done.

Solas glanced down to where some of the other members of the Inner Circle were beginning to gather, their faces turned up hopefully.  He stood, moving back from view, and Lyra could see him start to leave, emotionally.

“Solas.” He paused, and met her gaze.  She wetted her lips nervously, searching for the right thing to say.  “My people have a saying: The road to the Void is paved with good intentions.  Someone might try to do what they think is the right thing, but only cause harm and suffering.”

The moment stretched.  She held his probing gaze, stomach roiling with fear, throat thick with hope.  He looked away.

“Inquisitor… whatever happens now, I want you to know you will always have my respect.”

“Solas!” She stopped him again as he turned to go.  “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

She was pretty sure she’d shown her hand, as it were.  He had to have guessed what she knew. But he didn’t seem inclined to take her out for the threat she posed to his plans.  So she pushed, just a little more. “This isn’t the only answer.”

“It is the only one that I can see,” he told her, almost gently.

“You’re only one person, however knowledgeable and skilled you are.  It’s not inconceivable that you’ve missed something.” Somewhere down the hill, Cassandra called for the Inquisitor.  Solas took another step back. “Please! Solas, just think about it!”

He hesitated one more second, then bowed slightly to her, and was gone.

Wanting to cry, Lyra struggled to her feet and limped her way down to where her Inner Circle, minus one, awaited her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For someone who's supposed to be all wise and shit, Solas is a big dumb idiot.


	73. Lesson*

**Prompt: Lesson***

**Word count: 1,145**

* * *

 

The bright points of the minds of Skyhold’s inhabitants blazed like stars in Cole’s awareness.   _ Joy, relief, regret, wistfulness, grief, awe, love…  _ Emotions burst through him in a tumultuous mess, so many and so strong and he couldn’t really tell which came from whom.  But it was alright, nobody needed him, not right now. The emotions were strong, but they were good. Even the sad ones were clean, washing through them rather than clinging, sticky and heavy.

The soldiers were the brightest, relief like ivy, clinging to every corner in them, pressing lush and living at their boundaries.  A lot of them were also filled with sparks like pine in fire, fizzing and popping as they moved together. Cole knew, now, what it meant.  He knew a lot of things, now, understanding more the more human he became, but this thing he knew because of Dorian. It sometimes felt like pain, and so he’d appeared once, wanting to help… He hadn’t helped.  There had been screaming, and anger and shame and… He’d made them forget, and fled to the quiet library. Dorian had said Cole could ask him any question he wanted, so Cole had. Dorian had laughed very hard, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes, when Cole had haltingly asked what he’d done wrong.  It was confusing. Almost as confusing as when Dorian had explained.

Cole was trying to learn, but sometimes it seemed like he’d never understand being mortal.

The Inquisitor walked by, underneath the beam Cole was perched on, the Anchor making her a burning sun amid the stars.  Cole could only just hear her; she was happy, mostly, but also grieved and worried. Still, she smiled at him sincerely when he appeared at her elbow.

“Hello, Cole.  Are you enjoying the party?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It’s warm.”

“It is,” she said, with satisfaction.  “I’m so glad things went as well as they did.”

“But you’re worried.  It’s not over,” Cole said, reading her feelings.  Her smile dimmed a little.

“That’s true.  I’m afraid what will happen next.”

“A wolf in the shadows,” Cole whispered.  Lyra met his gaze.

“Do you know what he is, Cole?” she asked softly.

“Conflicted.”

She blinked, then a punch of dry humor erupted as a single barked laugh from her throat.  “I suppose he is that. Ah, nevermind. You should enjoy this, Cole. This is what it’s all about.  For this moment, we have peace. Hurt and sorrow are far from us.”

“Yes,” he nodded.  “It’s there, but can’t touch them.”

“Right.  Come on, kiddo, I think Pips is gonna sing something for us.”

Cole brightened.  “Yes!”

Piper’s instruments had been moved from the Rest; the stands were sitting by the big chair at the top of the hall.  Piper was there, too, along with Cullen. They were wrapped around each other, even though they stood carefully not touching.  Hearing them made Cole feel like bubbles.

“Piper!” Lyra said, almost singing already.  “Are you ready?”

Piper smiled at Cole, and told Lyra: “Yup.  Are you?”

Lyra’s joy was unfolding; she told everyone how Piper loved music and couldn’t live without it, but it was also true for her.  This opportunity was glowing in her as bright as in Piper. Grinning, Lyra picked up the fiddle and tuned it with eager swiftness.  Piper leaned her cane on a stool and settled one of the deep drums in her hands. Cullen shifted back, and Cole followed, leaving the two women on the dias alone.

Cole watched, fascinated, as the bonds and emotions between the two brightened and strengthened, as they always did just before they played together.  Their love and affection for each other were thick golden ropes tying their hearts together.

A mere look exchanged communicated everything they needed to know, and Piper’s posture elongated, her chin rising slightly as she inhaled deeply.  Her gowns were all tailored to not use stiff corsets, so she could support her singing voice properly. She’d been teaching Cole, helping him learn what it meant to have a real, corporeal body.   _ Breathe from the belly, not shallowly in your chest.  Let your diaphragm lower and your ribs expand, don’t try to fight or force it.  Can you feel it? _

Cole breathed with her, feeling the air fill his lungs, feeling his ribs flex.  Learning how to breathe helped Cole learn how to be present in his body, and the music helped him learn the mortal connection to emotion.

_ “I hear your voice on the wind.” _

The note that began the song soared into the hall, eliciting a hush that rippled through everyone present.  Cole felt a spark of pleasure from Piper— _ fantastic acoustics _ —as her voice, bare of accompaniment for now, rang out in the space.

_ “And I hear you call out my name.” _

Lyra drew out a note from the fiddle, slow and soft but growing.

_ “‘Listen my child,’ you say to me, _

_ ‘I am the voice of your history. _

_ Be not afraid, come follow me, _

_ Answer my call and I’ll set you free.’” _

Cole shivered as she held the note, high and pure, and felt the entire audience’s emotional reaction to the sweetness.  Lyra swooped the bow against the fiddle, twining with Piper as she continued:

_ “I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain. _

_ I am the voice of your hunger and pain. _

_ I am the voice that always is calling you. _

_ I am the voice; I will remain. _

 

_ “I am the voice in the fields when the summer’s gone, _

_ The dance of the leaves when the autumn winds blow. _

_ Ne’er do I sleep throughout all the cold winter long, _

_ I am the force that in springtime will grow.” _

Piper started a drumbeat in the pause before the next verse.  Awe was beginning to grow in the listening nobles and soldiers.  Even Cullen, next to Cole, felt a spark of it, though it was nearly drowned out by the wash of his love.

_ “I am the voice of the part that will always be, _

_ Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields. _

_ I am the voice of the future! _

_ Bring me your peace, _

_ Bring me your peace and my wounds, they will heal. _

 

_ “I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain. _

_ I am the voice of your hunger and pain. _

_ I am the voice that always is calling you. _

_ I am the voice. _

_ “I am the voice in the past that will always be. _

_ I am the voice of your hunger and pain. _

_ I am the voice of the future! _

_ I am the voice…” _

Her voice rose, the fiddle leaped around her, and Cole was buffeted with the strength of the emotional reactions in those listening.  And, for the first time, he thought he could feel it for himself. Not an echo of feeling vibrating through him, but  _ his  _ feeling.

Joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, it's been a month. I'm sorry. I definitely didn't want this to take so long; real life got a strange-hold on my time. You'd think summer would see things letting up a little, but no.
> 
> Song this time is The Voice, written and composed by Brendan Graham. I'm partial to the version performed by Celtic Woman: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SdFHGFkyew4


	74. Death

**Prompt: Death**

**Word count: 1,182**

* * *

 

“Look.  I get it; you don’t want to be away from Piper for so long, and you’re paranoid about letting her leave the safety of Skyhold after what happened the last time—”

“I don’t know that you do, if you’re insisting—”

“—but these are, if not allies, then one step removed.  We can trust—”

“—on taking her to what is, in essence, a battlefield—”

“—the Avvar to protect her, seeing as she is a skald and held in high esteem by their people as a whole—”

“—The whole reason you’re going is because of the presence of open Rifts, for Maker’s sake!”

Lyra opened her mouth to retort, and Piper hurriedly interjected: “Okay, okay, stop!  Stop, both of you! I’m not a child that needs others to make decisions for me.”

Cullen and Lyra turned frowny faces toward her, and she firmed up her chin.  “The Avvar are only contacting the Inquisition for help because Boarshold has spoken of us.  Lyra and I. To them, we aren’t the Inquisitor and the Inquisitor’s sister. We’re not ‘the Daughters of Andraste’.  To them, we are the Sky-Healer and the Skald. That’s important to them. We’re both important to them; that’s why they asked for both of us.  They should _get_ both of us.”

She stopped Cullen as he tried to protest.  “Cullen, I know it’s dangerous. I’m not stupid or reckless.  But you can’t keep me locked behind walls forever. I’m not a songbird to be caged.  That’s no way to live.”

“It’s a good way not to die,” Cullen muttered roughly.

“No, it’s not.”  Piper cupped his cheek in one hand, turning his face toward her.  “Cullen, my heart, bad things happen. Sometimes you can stop them, and sometimes you can’t.  But that shouldn’t prevent you from living. This is important, Cullen. These people asked for our help.  And they asked for  _ me _ .”

He deflated, shoulders drooping visibly even under all his armor.  She knew he’d understand if she explained it like that. She did understand that he was scared, that even the fact that she wasn’t going to be venturing into the field to close Rifts herself didn’t guarantee her safety.  Afterall, she hadn’t been fighting demons when she’d been kidnapped by Red Templars after Halamshiral.

He loved her and he was scared of losing her.

“We aren’t going to take risks,” Lyra said, her voice gentler now.  “I know that doesn’t mean too much, but it has to be enough.”

Cullen closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.  “Fine. Perhaps I can accompany—”

“No.” Lyra’s voice was very firm, and Cullen reflexively scowled.  “Listen, Cullen: no. The Avvar… you’d do poorly in their culture.”

He stiffened in insult.  “I—”

“Cullen.”  The very briefest of pauses.  “They call Cole our ‘god’.”

Silence.  Tense and uncomfortable.  After a pause to really let him consider that, Lyra continued: “Their connection to the Fade is different, conceptually.  They deal with mages very differently than anyone else. This will be way outside your comfort zone.”

“I...I wouldn’t attack an ally,” Cullen said, though his voice belied his own worry of how he’d react.

“That’s not really the concern I had,” Lyra said.  “I don’t think you’d just up and attack someone without warning, but Cullen.  You were triggered in Halamshiral. Maybe give your recovery a few years before you start visiting people who pray to spirits.”

Piper touched the back of Cullen’s hand where he gripped his sword’s pommel.  The vice of his fingers relaxed slightly, and he sighed. “Very well. That’s… probably a good idea.”

Piper could tell by the look on her sister’s face that she wanted to apologize, and was holding it in with the understanding that Cullen would not appreciate it.  She was right; he didn’t like when people tried to ‘coddle’ him. Despite the number of times the sisters had tried to explain to him that compassion for others’ health (mental, physical, emotional) wasn’t coddling but basic decency that every living thing deserved regardless of everything else, he still felt as if he deserved to suffer as penance.

They had come to a turbulent understanding in that the sisters gave Cullen a certain allowance for his ‘atonement’ but didn’t let him actually harm himself.  However much it felt like swallowing acid to choke back the words they wanted to say.

_ Big stupid man,  _ Piper thought, not unkindly.   _ Ferelden isn’t the land of dog-lords, it’s the land of mule-lords.  I’ve never met more obstinate people. _

“As the Commander, you are going to be in charge of determining the party’s military attache.  Size, composition, and basic protocol. You can arrange it how you want, so you can feel we are the best protected,” Lyra offered.  Cullen, looking resigned but still not quite happy, nodded.

Piper’s hand was still on Cullen’s, and she gave his knuckles a light squeeze.  Lyra watched them a moment, then straightened up from her hip-lean on Cullen’s desk.  “Alright. I’m going to start pulling together supply requisitions for the mission. You guys… talk.  Or whatever.”

She hied herself out the door, leaving Cullen and Piper alone in his office.

Piper sighed, pivoting so she stood in front of Cullen rather than beside him, and slipped her arms around his waist.  “I’m… I’m not sorry that I’m going, but I am sorry that it upsets you.”

“No,” Cullen sighed.  “Don’t apologize. I do understand why you’re going, why you feel you must.”

She searched his expression a moment then wryly said: “I suppose if anyone understands the feeling of duty, it’d be you.”

His mouth twitched, as close to a smile as he could get in his present mood.  Piper smiled back at him as if he’d been beaming. “I love you.”

His expression gentled immediately, the tightness at the corners of his eyes easing.  A slight smile curved his mouth. He cupped her face in a hand, tender. “I will never understand why, but I am glad for it.”

“I promise I’ll be as safe as I can,” Piper told him softly.  “The Avvar will protect me as fiercely as our own soldiers; it’s terribly shameful for a visiting skald to die under one’s care.”

Cullen stooped to press his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and sighing.  “I know.”

“We’ll keep you and the other advisors well apprised of the situation; there’ll be a raven-cote in our base camp.”

“I know.”

“It’ll only be a couple weeks; then we’ll be back safe and sound.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t change how you feel, though,” Piper whispered in understanding.  Cullen shook his head slightly. She squished herself a little closer into his embrace, completely empathetic to the situation.  It was a dangerous world, and she couldn’t defend herself, and even the strength of the Inquisition hadn’t been able to protect her, before.  Of course Cullen would be worried. It just sucked that she had to watch him fret over it, and there wasn’t really anything she could do to help.

Piper buried her nose in his fur collar and let him hold her as tight as he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's totally a chronic worry-wart.
> 
> I super-duper LOVED the Jaws of Hakkon DLC. The lore it added to the 'verse was awesome! Also the text you get if you send Storvacker to Skyhold... A++


	75. Enthusiasm

**Prompt: Enthusiasm**

**Word count: 1,047**

* * *

 

_ From the journal of Bram Kenric, Professor, Université de Orlais _

8 Parvulis 9:42 Dragon

The Inquisitor has arrived in Frostback Basin.  She brought a small army and her sister, which was surprising; I had heard that the Lady did not leave Skyhold.  They are strange people, not at all what I would expect of holy figures. But I suppose Andraste Herself had been Alamarri.  Perhaps it is not so strange that Her Daughters would be so at home here in the trees and dirt. There is something endearingly rustic about their comfort with furs and woodsmoke, though I am sure if the nobles in Val Royeaux could see them, they would be appalled.  The Daughters of Andraste are too close to Fereldan for Orlesian comfort.

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say the Daughters are too close to Avvarian for Orlesian comfort?  I did not expect them to be so at ease with the Hillfolk, or for the tribesmen to hold such high regard for the women.  Avvar most often tend to scoff at us ‘weak Lowlanders’, but they treat the Inquisitor and the Lady almost like brethren.  And certainly the Daughters seem like it; they even speak the Avvarian language!

I am envious of their rapport.  My research would advance a great deal faster if I could speak to the people upon whose lands I trespass to investigate Inquisition ruins.  Certainly it would result in less arrows being pointed my way.

In any case, the Inquisitor has promised to speak with the Avvar here—she says they are called Stone-Bear Hold.  I should have permission to conduct my research in short order, though she warned me that the Avvar would likely assign me an escort.  Something about hospitality rules and not allowing guests to come to harm on their lands. I am not quite a member of the Inquisition, but I am apparently close enough to be afforded this.

I am quite excited; this could be the break I need.  I know there is something in this valley that will advance my research.  I know it.

* * *

10 Parvulis 9:42 Dragon

The Inquisitor has done it!  And the Avvar do not waste time; the Inquisitor returned to the camp with my Avvar escort yesterday, which prompted a very accelerated planning of and packing for a venture toward the north.  The Inquisitor has insisted upon accompanying the party, as she is “really curious what I’ll find”. I am as well! I have not quite investigated the whole of the structure we found, but it appears to have been a site of some sort of ritual.  And there is evidence that Inquisitor Ameridan was here! Interestingly, there are a great number of Dalish artifacts in the ruin as well, appearing to date to the same time. Had there been elves in the first Inquisition?

Our Avvar escort proved to be a very welcome thing, as apparently there is more than one tribe in the Basin, and one is extremely hostile.  We encountered a few of their raiding parties in the trek up here, but they were handily beaten back by the Inquisition troops and our Avvar allies.  It has been substantially more action than I am entirely comfortable with, but all others in my entourage seemed… unfazed. Even the Inquisitor, who cannot fight, did not seem concerned with the battle.  But perhaps she would be used to it, wouldn’t she? She is always running about closing those Rifts left over from the Breach, and I suppose there is a great deal of fighting demons involved with the job…

* * *

14 Parvulis 9:42 Dragon

Holy Andraste preserve us all!  Dragons! Or, well, a dragon. But a god dragon!  It tried to eat the Inquisitor. Well, actually, it tried to eat everyone, but the Inquisitor went out with her party to fight it.  It froze half the basin! Apparently, it was host to an Avvar god! Or a spirit? I haven’t quite figured out what, exactly, their gods are.  But I think the one controlling the dragon was the Avvar god of death and winter, Hakkon Wintersbreath. The Inquisitor said there was a clan of Avvar who worshipped him, the hostile clan here in the Basin, and were trying to bring him into the world to destroy their enemies.  They apparently had tried once before, long ago, but were stopped by the first Inquisition. She said I was right, that Frostback Basin was Inquisitor Ameridan’s final resting place! And she said that she saw him,  _ spoke with him _ !  Ameridan was trapped in a status glyph with the god-dragon for all this time, and the Hakkonites broke the binding when they tried to siphon their god into a new vessel.  Fortunately, Inquisitor Lyra was there to record Ameridan’s final words.

I hardly know what to do.  What she told me changes everything.  My research… I am either going to become more famous that Brother Genetivi, or I will be hung for heresy.

_ Inquisitor Ameridan was an elf.   _ A Dalish, in fact, with vallaslin and everything.  That’s why I’ve found Dalish artifacts in every First Inquisition site here.  He and his lover Telana were elves, and not only that, but elvhen mages! Emperor Drakon trusted this Dalish mage so completely, he deputised him to act in his name.

There has not been an elf so powerful since Shartan.

Orlais—no, the  _ Chantry _ —is not going to like this.  And they’ll like my publishing it even less.  They have spent great effort trying to erase elvhen influence from their history, since the Exalted Marches on the Dales made them enemies.  But history shouldn’t be changed like that; I became a scholar to learn truth. I would rather history be forgotten entirely than be made lies like that.  It is disgraceful, disrespectful. What does it matter if the truth is inconvenient? History can be learned from, but hiding it helps nothing.

Inquisitor Lyra and her sister agree with the sentiment.  They told me that, should I run into problems reporting my research findings, I should turn to the Inquisition for help.  They are good people, these Daughters of Andraste. I hope I will not have to take them up on the offer, but it is good to have the assurance of it.


	76. Party*

**Prompt: Party***

**Word count: 1,293**

* * *

 

Svarah Sun-hair was indebted to Rollo, Thane of Boarshold, and it vexed her some measure.  Not as much as it might have, had the favor he’d paid been less than what it was, but owing the man anything put her in a bad mood.  He was a boorish sort, given to boasting far more than a thane should, and always, always, propositioning Svarah. As if she would give up her position as thane of her own hold...

Still, it was due to his people’s willingness to share information that Stone-Bear Hold was safe now.  Their stories had been right; the Lowlanders’ Inquisitor had been able to heal the Wounds, and disperse the corrupt spirits that had spawned from them.  And what’s more, the Inquisition had lent their aid with the Hakkonites as well. Frostback Basin was safe for Svarah’s people once more.

Tonight, they were celebrating.  The Inquisition had brought its skald, the Inquisitor’s own sister it seemed, and the Lowlander soldiers seemed open-minded and easy natured.  They were mixed in with her own people, sharing words and drinks—the Inquisitions had brought a cask of ale, which appeared to be very welcome among Stone-Bear Hold’s warriors—and Svarah could see a fair number of pairings developing in the sidelong glances and flashing smiles.

_“De är väldigt vänliga.”_ The Inquisitor slipped up to Svarah’s elbow, smiling.  Even after several days to get used to it, it was still a surprise to hear the familiar words of the Avvar tongue from the mouth of a Lowlander.  Most of them did not deign to learn it, the ‘tongue of barbarians’. But the Inquisitor and her sister spoke it easily and willingly, with only a slight accent.  The Inquisitor smirked out at their mingled people, and continued: _“Nobody’s going to be lonely tonight, that’s for sure.”_

_“Rilla’s hands cradle us, certainly,”_ Svarah replied in the same manner.   _“Will it not be problem for your people?”_

_“No,”_ the younger woman shrugged a shoulder, by all appearances unconcerned.   _“I, and my advisors, are well aware we can’t possibly hope to stop all fraternization.  It’s more efficient to educate our troops to be smart and careful rather than try to persuade them to abstinence.  Might as well try to persuade the sun not to rise.”_

Svarah laughed.  That was true enough; she remembered well being swept up by Rilla’s flame.  It was a tide of feeling that was hard to resist, and oftentimes one did not _want_ to resist.

“It is a comfort to know our people are not so different,” she told the Inquisitor, switching to the Lowlanders’ tongue.  She followed the example, replying:

“People are people everywhere.  I’m glad what small differences there are don’t seem insurmountable to them.”

They watch as a pair—a dwarven Inquisition soldier and an Avvar hunter—slipped away from the large bonfires of the celebration to somewhere more private.

“Not insurmountable at all,” the Inquisitor reiterated dryly.

“It is good for them,” Svarah said.  “It will strengthen our truce.”

“Mmm,” the Inquisitor hummed in agreement, sipping from a mug of mead.  Svarah eyed her.

“You are not what I expected,” she said bluntly.  Prevarication was something of a Lowlander proclivity, not much seen amongst Avvar who valued blunt, unadorned honesty.  She was pleased to see that this strange un-Lowlander Lowlander merely gave her a curious glance, but seemed unoffended.

“Oh?” she said, tone an invitation for Svarah to continue.

“Avvar rarely have pleasant exchanges with your people.”

The Inquisitor gave a small shrug.  “They’re not exactly my people. I mean, they’re mine because I lead them, but my sister and I didn’t come from them.  We were as much outsiders to them in the beginning as we are to you.”

This time, it was Svarah making an inquisitive noise.  The Inquisitor gave a wry little smile. “We’re not really sure what the relationship _is_ , between where we come from and _here_.  We can’t find our homeland on any map, and we didn’t get here in any normal manner.  In point of fact, we fell through a Rift.”

“We had heard of that; it is true?”

“Yup,” the Inquisitor said, popping the ‘p’.  She took another drink of mead. Svarah considered this.

“How is it you know our languages, then?  Did you learn when you came here?”

“No, that’s the weird part.  Well, one of the weird parts.  These languages are nearly identical, aside from some small dialect changes, to languages in our homeland.  You would say what we’re speaking right now is Common; we call it English. Your language is Avvarian; for us, it’s Swedish.”

“Curious,” Svarah murmured.  “To be connected and know nothing of each other.”

The Inquisitor shook her head.  “That’s not entirely true. We knew of you, of Thedas, in stories.  But they were _fiction_ to us, not true.”

Svarah turned to look her in the face, incredulous.  “You fell through a Wound into a place you’d previously thought was make-believe?  How did not think yourself mad?”

“Well, I did doubt things for a while, but even if this was a dream I could hardly have done anything different.  People were dying, and I could do something to help. Did I really want to take the chance that it wasn’t real? What if I did nothing because I thought it all a dream, and then later found out it was real and I’d just let people die?”

Svarah nodded slowly.  They watched as the Inquisitor’s sister laughingly set aside her drink, a mix of Avvar and Lowlander urging chivvying her from her seat for a song.

“And, you know, it’s not all bad.  It was also exciting to find myself here.  Terrifying, but exciting. I guess I have a bit of an explorer’s soul.  Thedas, for all its similarities, is so different from home. Perhaps I’ll meet a horrible, painful, gory end here, but… I’ve also met people, made dear friends that I never would have met otherwise.  Maybe I didn’t choose this life, but I can’t really regret living it.”

A hush was falling, radiating outward from the skald and those begging songs from her, as others noticed her preparing.  One of Svarah’s warriors picked up the small woman and perched her on top of a table. The Inquisitor’s sister rolled her shoulders back, eyes closing a moment before she opened them.  Her expression was soft, gaze distant, and she began to sing in Avvarian.

_“Uti vår hage där växa blåbär._

_Kom hjärtans fröjd_

_Vill du mig något så träffas vi där_

 

_“Kom liljor och aquileja,_

_Kom rosor och saliveja,_

_Kom ljuva krusmynta,_

_Kom hjärtans fröjd!”_

Svarah could see the regard both her own people and the Inquisition held for the woman in the way they all listened intently.  It appeared that, even though the Inquisition soldiers did not understand the words, they enjoyed their skald’s singing.

She was only slightly surprised when the Inquisitor herself joined her voice to her sister’s, stepping forward from Svarah’s side.  The skald’s eyes went to her sister, sharpening a moment as she gave a bright smile, before relaxing back into the song.

_“Fagra små blommor där bjuda till dans_

_Kom hjärtans fröjd!_

_Vill du så binder jag åt en krans._

 

_“Kom liljor och aquileja,_

_Kom rosor och saliveja,_

_Kom ljuva krusmynta,_

_Kom hjärtans fröjd!_

 

_“Uti vår hage finns blommor och bär_

_Kom hjärtans fröjd!_

_Men utav alla du kärast mig är._

 

_“Kom liljor och aquileja,_

_Kom rosor och saliveja,_

_Kom ljuva krusmynta,_

_Kom hjärtans fröjd!”_

Their voices were very sweet, Svarah thought, and the song was soft and joyful, a fitting tribute to this new friendship.  They were not bad, for Lowlanders. Almost Avvar. She supposed she would not regret allying with them.

And she’d pay Rollo of Boarshold back, however much it rankled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "De är väldigt vänliga" = "They're very friendly"
> 
> Song is Swedish folk 'Uti vår hage'. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PR698KqwlQ4
> 
> My writing freetime is shot all to hell, sooooo we're just gonna do the updating thing whenever I finish a chapter, okay?


	77. Running Away

**Prompt: Running Away**

**Word count: 1,131**

* * *

 

“What?  No,” Cullen said in disbelief, resisting the urge to pinch his eyes shut against the threatening headache.  He needed to keep his eye on the… the…

“The Inquisitor assures us that, um, Storvacker is perfectly well-behaved and will not cause any problems in Skyhold,” Josephine relayed, her eyes bouncing between the missive she clutched and the… Storvacker.  The bear wuffed as if in agreement. A few of the nearest scouts edged away.

“Where are we supposed to put a bear?” Cullen asked, trying to keep the edge of hysteria out of his voice.

“She says, ah, that there are caves in the area surrounding Skyhold that would be appropriate,” Josephine replied.  “And that Storvacker should be allowed freedom to come and go within the castle, as she pleases.”

“...Right,” Cullen said, a little blankly.  He shook himself mentally, then, and turned to pin a soldier with a firm look.  “Jim.”

“Ser?” said the scout with equal parts dread and pleading.

“Escort Storvacker to the east-most of the Triplets,” Cullen ordered, ignoring the dawning horror in the scout’s face.  The caves weren’t that far off, and the Inquisitor claimed the bear was friendly. He’d be fine. Probably.

“Yes, ser,” Jim said in a tone that suggested Cullen just ordered him to pitch himself off the battlements.  The scout looked at the bear. “Er. If… you’ll… follow me, uh, ma’am?”

Storvacker made a low groaning sound, and lumbered forward… toward Cullen.  He froze in place, spine going rigid, and fought the instinct to draw his sword.

 _She is an ally,_ he reminded himself.   _An ally.  Ally. MAKER’S BREATH._

The bear moved slowly—perhaps an attempt to seem harmless?—head swaying with each step.  She snuffled at Cullen’s boots, then lifted her head to peer up at him. And then she rose ponderously to two feet, towering over everyone but most especially Cullen.  He felt the blood drain from his face, certain that he was about to be mauled. Josephine was making alarmed noises behind the bulk of the bear, and one of the soldiers stuttered out an uncertain: “C-commander?”

“Stand down,” Cullen said, voice tight, hoping that he hadn’t just made a mistake and told his soldiers to let the bear bite his face off.

Storvacker’s massive paws landed heavily on his shoulders, pressing him into a slightly slump and squeezing a grunt out of him.  Her snout approached his face, and Cullen felt a little faint. She wuffled around his chin and ears, and then…

“I… Is she… _licking me_?” Cullen didn’t want to turn his head to look, lest she take it as an invitation.  There was a long, shocked silence from the soldiers around him. At last, Josephine answered haltingly.

“It… appears… Storvacker is, ah, grooming your mantle.”

Cullen stood frozen a moment longer, then, very slowly, he lifted his hand and pressed it against the bear’s muzzle and pushed.  Storvacker grumbled, and took his hand into her mouth.

Cullen re-froze at the sight of his limb held between teeth as long as his fingers.  Josephine made a little whimpering sound. “C-commander, perhaps it would be wise to _not_ upset the bear.”

He gritted his teeth against a snappish response, and tried to think of a way of removing his hand from the bear’s mouth.  “Storvacker,” he said carefully, firmly. “ _No_.”

She grumbled again, and—mercifully—opened her mouth.  Cullen extracted his hand, then used it to point out the main gate.  “Go.”

Storvacker gave an almost woof in response, lowered herself down to all fours again, and lumbered off.  They watched her go in silence. Then:

“Uh,” said Jim nervously.  “Should I still…?”

“Yes,” Cullen said firmly.  Jim whimpered, but went.

* * *

The Inquisitor was mostly right; Storvacker was fairly well-behaved for a bear.  She was clearly intelligent, almost like a massive bear-shaped mabari.

Not that the mabari thought so.  They ran away everytime the bear came into sight, leaving Cullen to the tender mercies of her tongue.  The fur on his collar would never recover; he’d already asked Josephine to arrange a new mantle to be made.  He had to hope Storvacker would eventually lose interest in grooming him; he could hardly command armies covered in bear saliva.

Though he had to admit it was very effective for discipline to have the bulk of the great beast lumbering beside him as he oversaw drills.  It seemed nobody wanted to put a toe out of line with a bear breathing down their neck. Cullen wondered if they’d be as frightened if they knew the most Storvacker would likely do to them is drool on them and coat them in a layer of wiry fur.

Cullen brushed ineffectively at the fabric of his mantle, _tsk_ ing to himself over the state of it.  He’d sent it to the washers twice already this week, four times last week, and four the week before.  Already the crimson was less vibrant, and the fur looked dull and flat, the increased washing with the harsh soaps of the washers having taken a toll.  He grumbled.

Maybe the Inquisitor would be able to speak to Storvacker; by her letters, it seemed she’d gotten along with the bear and had found it biddable enough.  Perhaps the creature would listen to her.

He sighed through his nose, straightening and rubbing a tense shoulder muscle.  They were due back at Skyhold soon. Really, any day now, if the recent rains in southern Ferelden hadn’t made too much of a mess of the roads.

Very soon, he’d see Piper again.

The depth to which he’d missed her had surprised him; not even when he’d left home to begin templar training had he felt so alone.  He missed her dragging him to the kitchens for the lunch he’d inevitably forgotten to eat. He missed catching glimpses of her, surrounded by the mabari, about the keep during the day.  And he missed the quiet intimacy of his tower late at night, as he worked at his desk and she worked on her compositions in the corner, a harp or flute or guitar softly filling the room with snippets of song.  And he missed other intimacies, as well…

Even alone in his own quarters, Cullen blushed and cleared his throat, awkward.  He looked out the arrow-slit window and deliberately shifted his thoughts elsewhere.

He wondered if Piper had learned any new songs from the Avvar.  She’d mentioned the hope to him offhandedly before she left, curious about the Thedosian people who shared her ancestors’ language.  Cullen had to admit he wasn’t sure what Avvarian music sounded like, and since Piper’s question, he’d wondered. He hoped she had learned something, and that she’d share it.  It would undoubtedly be beautiful, in her voice.

He sighed.

Any day now, she’d be back in Skyhold, back in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little silliness and pinch of fluff before we go back to Orlais *disgusted noise*


	78. Unbreakable

**Prompt: Unbreakable**

**Word count: 1,973**

* * *

 

It was strange to walk into the War Room (now, in the wake of the war ending, called the Map Room) and to have Leliana’s place at the table filled by her young elven protégé.  The former Spymaster had gone to Val Royeaux to begin the long ritual of rising to the seat of the Divine, leaving her position in the Inquisition. In a way, Cassandra was surprised Leliana had been willing to cede her information network to Charter.  For as long as she had known the Nightingale, the woman had been nearly as secretive amongst her allies as her enemies. She’d thought Leliana trusted no one.

Well, perhaps she still doesn’t.  Perhaps Leliana still has her own spies informing her on the Inquisition’s, and Charter’s, actions.  Maybe Charter was even still Leliana’s spy.

Cassandra frowned down at the map.  As much as she’d felt a kinship with Leliana as Hands of Divine Justinia, Cassandra didn’t completely trust Leliana.  Not her methods, in any case.

But then, Cassandra has always been an idealist.  She believed figures of power should be beyond reproach, should be untouchable by corruption.  There shouldn’t be any need for underhandedness, for spying. But that wasn’t the truth of the world, was it?

The Inquisitor arrived, with a slightly distracted air.  She’d been oddly  _ absent _ recently… Liable to get lost in her thoughts in meetings, when before she was attentive.  Stiff and solemn more frequently, her temper easier to set off.

“Afternoon,” she greeted without her usual energy.  “What’s on the docket for today?”

Josephine delicately cleared her throat and began explaining some diplomatic situation somewhere in Orlais.  Cassandra would admit to completely tuning it out. Instead, she watched the Inquisitor with sharp eyes, observant and assessing.  She’d seen similar behavior before—from Cullen, actually. When he first stopped taking lyrium, before the withdrawals had gone beyond simple headaches.  The pain, and worry over his future, had made him snappish and tense.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed.  Was the Inquisitor in pain? She had been injured during her battle in Frostback Basin, but that had been weeks ago.  It should have been healed already… Was it still bothering her? She started eyeing the Inquisitor’s posture, trying to see if she was favoring a leg or hunching a shoulder, or signaling pain or discomfort in any other way.

“—may set a dangerous precedent, if we start casting judgements on matters typically addressed by the Empress’ court,” Josephine was saying worriedly.  “I’m not sure we want to be involving ourselves in the matter, even if Comte Baudin has asked.”

“The Inquisition didn’t form to become the world police,” Lyra said. “We formed to combat the threat of the Breach.  Well, we’ve closed the Breach, taken out the one who opened it, and now we’re mopping up the Rifts and demons that remain.  We’re not going to start arbiting arguments that do not affect our stated purpose, especially without the approval of the leadership of the country involved.  We need Orlais’ good-will to keep letting us travel through their country at will. Josie, send a properly diplomatic response that the Comte should address his concerns to his own government.”

“Of course,” she replied, scratching a note on her board.  “I will send the draft to you for approval.”

“Commander?  What news?”

Cullen cleared his throat.  “Knight-Captain Rylen reports that the last of the demons in the Western Approach have been eliminated; the area is now cleared.  However, the Darkspawn presence continues.”

“Are there more, now that the Wardens have abandoned Adamant?”

“Rylen doesn’t think so, but the level of current activity is enough to make him nervous without Warden back-up.”

“Okay,” Lyra said, rubbing her jaw with her right hand.  “Okay. Well, I was intending on pulling out of the Approach after we’d cleared it.  The base is costly, resource-wise, and if there’s no Rifts or demons there’s no reason we should be there.  But Darkspawn are everyone’s problem. We can’t leave if they’re going to take over the place themselves. So, here’s what I think we should do.

“We’re going to turn control of Griffon Wing over to the Wardens.  The keep was originally theirs, and with Adamant so damaged from the siege and the dragon, it’d be best if they moved their base of operations over to Griffon Wing.  Because they  _ do  _ need to maintain a presence in the Approach; the Darkspawn would otherwise gain too much of a foothold.   _ We _ , however, have accomplished our goals in the area, so we don’t need the base.  We aren’t going to completely withdraw, though. We’ll have a smaller force stay and lend support to the Wardens, since their numbers are low right now.  But I…” Lyra hesitated, brows drawn down low and pinched. “We aren’t the Grey Wardens. Our soldiers aren’t equipped as well to fight them, and the danger is greater than simply fighting Venatori or Red Templars.  It also was never our purpose. So I’m hesitant to order Inquisition forces to take on the Wardens’ job. Commander, what response do you think asking for volunteers will receive?”

Cullen considered the question, nodding thoughtfully.  “I believe our troops will gladly rise to the occasion, Inquisitor.  Darkspawn are the enemy of all living things, and we all know to fight them where they’re found.  There will be some who choose not to, but you will not find a lack of volunteers. Moral and dedication will certainly be higher for it having been their decision.”

“Okay,” Lyra said, a note of relief in her voice.  “Good. And to be clear, I want the call for volunteers to go out to all our forces, not only the troops already at Griffon Wing.  I want to give them a chance to cycle out.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Cullen replied, making a note in his own records.  Lyra leaned against the map table, bracing her right hand in southern Ferelden and peering down at Crestwood.

“What’s the situation at Caer Bronach?”

“It’s been all quiet since you cleared out the dragon,” Cullen replied.  “Nothing of particular import to report.”

The Inquisitor nodded her understanding.  “And do you have the latest reports from Sahrnia?”

“Here,” Cullen said, searching through a stack of documents and pulling out the right ones.  He handed the pile of papers over the table to Lyra, who awkwardly leaned over the large map to take them with her right hand, her left remaining stiffly motionless at her side rather than rising to help brace her against the table.  Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. She wasn’t using her left hand at all, was she?

“Thank you,” Lyra said, skimming over the topmost paper briefly before setting them aside to review later in more depth.  “Is that all?”

Cullen hesitated, then said: “There are still daily arrivals of young hopefuls and old veterans hoping to join the Inquisition.  Are we to start turning them away? If we are to be decreasing the scope of our operations, I mean.”

Lyra made a face.  “Short answer: Yes.  Long answer: Ferelden and Orlais tolerate our armed presence in their lands right now because we’re doing them a service; we’re getting rid of the leftover Rifts, demons, Red Templars, Venatori, etc.  But once those  _ are  _ gone, our presence is going to start to chafe.  We’re already getting nobles coming to us instead of their own governments.  It’s going to create problems for us.”

Josephine and Charter were nodding along, apparently in accord with Lyra’s analysis.

“By starting to scale down our activity and size, I hope to buy us a little time before the grumbling starts in earnest.”

“Do you truly think they will turn on us so quickly?” Cullen asked, but his tone suggested he expected she was right.

Lyra sighed.  “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

“Orlais would never cede any measure of their power,” Charter spoke up.  “Not unless doing so gave them some other power to make up for it. And Ferelden will never accept Inquisition authority, not with the Orlesian occupation so present in recent memory and so many Orlesians in our forces.”

Cullen  _ tsk _ ed in disgust, shaking his head.  “You’re right, but Maker give me strength, I wish you weren’t.  There’s still a lot of good the Inquisition could do beside cleaning up what is left of Corypheus’ folly.”

“Probably, but you can’t help people who don’t want to be helped,” Lyra said.  She sounded weary. “Anyway. We’ll stop promoting recruitment, and we’ll have to figure out something to do with hopefuls that get here and would have nothing to use to get home if we turned them away.  That might take some thought and planning.”

“I will see what options my networks have to help such people,” Josephine offered.

“I’ll compile a list of paths our convoys take and how often; we can ferry at least some who are turned away back home,” Cullen added.

“Good,” Lyra said.  “Please do so. Charter?”

“No reports this week, Your Worship.  Still waiting on our operative in the Imperium.”

“Very well.  If that’s all, then we’ll dismiss…”

Cassandra slotted herself in beside the Inquisitor as they filed out of the Map Room.  “Inquisitor, if you have a moment?”

Lyra stepped to the side to allow Josephine by, and then they were alone in the hall.  Still, Cassandra kept her voice low as she asked: “Are you well? Is the Anchor bothering you?”

For a moment, Lyra’s expression was open, bare.  Cassandra glimpsed a great weariness, and fear, and resignation.  And then the Inquisitor pulled her mask back up and she was once again indomitable, assured.  “I’m fine, why do you ask?”

“You haven’t used your left hand at all today, that I’ve seen.  You hold it at your side as if you’ve forgotten it exists.” She didn’t think she imagined the flinch, slight as it was, that twitched Lyra’s expression at that.

“It’s fine.  It doesn’t hurt.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, Inquisitor.”

“I swear to you that it doesn’t hurt,” Lyra said, firm, and perhaps she  _ wasn’t  _ lying.  “If I am favoring the arm, it may be more psychological than physical.”

“Psychological…?” Cassandra echoed, brow furrowing.

“I mean, it may be more in my head than in my body.”  Lyra lifted her marked hand, palm open so the green glow tinted the air between them.  “It is not a  _ comfortable  _ thought, knowing there is a metaphysical tear in the fabric of reality, contained within my palm.  And the Breach is closed, but the Anchor still remains.”

Oh.  Cassandra’s scowl lessened.  “Perhaps it will close with the last Rift?”

“Maybe,” Lyra said, staring down at the shimmering green.  “But it… It’s just as strong as it ever was. If its power comes from tears in the Fade like the Breach and the Rifts, wouldn’t you think it would get weaker the more of them I close?”

“I could not begin to guess.”

“Yeah, me neither.  The only person who really could offer any answers was Solas, and…” Lyra trailed off, frowning.

“And he is gone,” Cassandra finished.  She inspected the Inquisitor a moment, taking in the stiff tilt to her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes that belied the weariness she tried to hide.  “I am sorry, Inquisitor.”

Lyra tried to shrug.  “We’ll just have to see what happens when I close the last Rift, and go from there.”

A part of Cassandra regretted bringing up the matter, clearly forcing into prominence the worries that already consumed some measure of the Inquisitor’s thoughts.  But the woman was strong; stronger than Cassandra might have ever guessed when they’d first met.

“You have our support, whenever you need it,” she reminded her, and dared the familiarity of reaching out to clasp Lyra’s shoulder.  It earned her a nod and a smile, and if that smile was a little thin, she graciously ignored it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry it's taken so long. Life has been running at 120% recently and I hardly have had the time or energy for my usual hobbies, including writing.


End file.
